


A Town Called Original Sin

by phantomreviewer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once. (Yet another re-post I'm afraid, I might love A03, but I don't understand it. But finally finished now. This work will NOT be accidently deleted again. I hope.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Prologue**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Prologue  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

London was quiet. There was the hacking growl of an urban fox as it buried itself into a mound of rubbish on the street corner, echoed by the occasional car hissing quietly through the night, as if it didn’t want to disturb anything. Even the drunken singing filtering through half open windows sounded like a lullaby.

She staggered out of the pub into the peaceful night.

Her feet were unsteady as she walked, with one hand shoved deep into her pocket, and the other alternating between being hovering in front of her for balance and being clenched tight into the other pocket.

She had been drinking, and her eyes were torn between ire and sadness. Her hair was untidy as though she had run her fingers through it repeatedly in exasperation and the little make up that she'd had around her eyes had been rubbed roughly away – there were smudges around her eyes and on the back of her hands. A brush of scarlet lipstick dashed across her knuckles.

Turning back to the closing door that she'd exited she scowled.

“Leave me alone Clara! I hate you!”

The ferocity of her temper startled the dozing pigeons and the man who had just exited the pub frowned his disapproval.

Her attempts to flip him off would have been more successful had her balance not failed her. She muttered under her breath at him as he walked past in the opposite direction to her.

Hesitating a few moments she staggered towards her final destination, her high heel caught on the edge of the curb she tripped, slamming her hands forwards onto the road sign for Chamber Street.

The rusted metal snagged her palms, and the rough graze left a smear of blood on the grey sign, signing the graffiti on it like a macabre stamp.

As she swore, rubbing her bloodied hand across her skirt, she thought for a moment of her brother, the doctor. She wasn't medically minded; she spat on the cut and wiped it down again.

The walk was taking her longer than she would expect it to, and the railway bridge was dark scattered with puddles deep and virtually invisible.

She cursed as she put her foot down into one.

There was a man leaning against the other wall of the bridge, a small man, whose eyes were in shadow. He stood watching her as she battled with the grating for her heel.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, helping to pull her up and out of the gutter that she'd been caught in.

She staggered, and his other hand gripped her upper arm with fingers tight across the swell of her coat.

“'hanks.”

And then he pushed with all of his weight. Her balance, already fragile from the excessive alcohol, failed completely and she fell crashing backwards.

On instinct she pushed back against him, trying to fight off his boot on her chest, but her responses were tired and dull from the drink, the cold hair and the fear that was permeating her body .She couldn't even scream.

The moonlight glinted off the knife edge that he held aloft.

An urban fox caught its paw on a split tin and gave a sharpened yowl.

London was quiet again.

Prologue | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 1**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 1  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

Chandler was rocking on the balls of his feet in the centre of the office, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Their floor was rarely this clean, and he assumed this was one of the perks spoken about by Anderson. The noise made him smile, as he looked around the room.  
   
Things were all back in their proper place, he skimmed his eyes over the empty desks. Almost everything.  
   
He swallowed, and turned back to face the door.  
   
The team was a smaller unit now, tighter.  
   
And they had another case.  
   
The door swung open.  
   
“What are you so cheerful about sir?”  
   
Chandler flashed a brief but genuine smile -more like a school boy's grin- at his sergeant.  
   
“The morgue left a message.”  
   
Mansell laughed out loud, whilst Kent went pale. Mansell laughed harder and clapped him on the shoulder.  
   
“You can't have that much of a hangover Kent, nothing that a nice murder can't solve.”  
   
Kent opened his mouth to reply, before he burst into a fit of coughing. Mansell slapped his back harder.  
   
“Exactly the attitude that we should be taking Mansell.”  
   
Miles shook his head at Chandler's enthusiasm and dropped his raincoat over the back of his chair.  
   
“The body's down in the morgue. A proper who-dun-it. The body's still unidentified, as no identification was found on the body. Mansell, I want you to stay here and see what leads you can make, report from the morgue says female, late 30's, search missing persons, anything was found on Chamber Street by an off duty Community Support Officer. Miles, Kent, with me. The body was found in the early hours of this morning, so Llewellyn's been examining it for us. Come along.”  
   
Mansell shrugged, accepting his role in the pecking order and flopped down in his chair, spinning around on the base.  
   
“Well, come on then, not a moment to loose.”  
   
Kent stripped out of his coat and deposited it on the back of his own chair, smoothing out the shoulders as he went.  
   
In that short space of time, Chandler had moved to the doorway, and was propping the door open with the edge of his shoe, the scuff that this would leave was obvious to Kent, who stared for a few moment, gaze going from Chandler leather shoes to his face anxiously.  
   
“I'm sure his nibs wouldn't mind if you wanted to shine 'em if you want, just come on Kent.”  
   
He was stunned out of his reverie by Miles who shoved Kent towards the door.  
   
Kent blushed as he brushed past Chandler, feeling Chandler's silk waistcoat against his wrist, and he stood awkwardly in the corridor, with his hand plunged into his pockets.  
   
Miles followed the DI out of the office, and Chandler turned off from speaking to him, instead focusing his attention down the corridor, to the prospect of the case.  
   
Kent, walking hesitatingly, hung back from Chandler's fast pace and Miles looked back at him.  
   
“You okay son?”  
   
He nodded, sharply, even through it had been at least a month, he didn't trust himself to rush or run, just in case. Instead he cocked his head at Chandler's back.  
   
“It's positively indecent, sir, the amount the guv'nor enjoys this.”  
   
Miles shrugged.  
   
“He soon sobers up lad, when he remembers what the real world's like.”  
   
The Ripper case had only emphasised that, entering into something so unbelievably keen, even Kent had never been that indicatively interested when he'd first joined the team, for it all to fall around your feet. To see the first body, and then the bodies that they'd failed to save. It made the haughty position of detective come down to earth with a bump, and no more than for the DI.  
   
“He loves his job, that's all that matters.”  
   
“I guess so lad, I guess so.”  
   
The plastic tunics that they were bedecked in before entering the morgue gave them the impression of being sterile, sterile and cold.  
   
Chandler slavered his hands from the hand pumps and worried them together.  
   
The body was lying between them and Doctor Llewellyn on the bed, eyes closed, and looking as peaceful as a murder victim could. Kent went pale.  
   
“As you can see gentlemen, the cause of death is the cut to the throat, I believe that the killer held her head back by the chin, probably with his left hand and then cut the throat with his right. The knife would have passed through the throat three times, from left to right, right to left, and then again from left to right.”  
   
She indicated the cutting of the body's throat, tracing her finger above the fatal wound as the knife.  
   
“I believe that the killer would have been crouched by her right side, and from the angle that she was found lying at, it's unlikely that the killer would have had much blood on him at all. There are no obvious indications of a struggle, there's a cut on her right palm, but this appears to be from a separate incident. Yet there are minor wounds on the back of her head, suggesting that she was thrown to the ground, with considerable violence, before her death. Which may have been enough to render her unconscious, but I doubt it.”  
   
Chandler coughed, attempting to disguise a subtle retch. Miles stared at him, and then turned his attention back to Llewellyn.  
   
“What is interesting however, if you look at her left ear, part of it has been torn off. This injury took place after death, as you can see from the blood; however, it appears to be unmotivated and irrational. Why take an ear?”  
   
Miles crossed his arms, looking from Llewellyn to Chandler, to the dead Jane Doe on the slab.  
   
Kent rubbed his hands together, shivering, not just from the cold.  
   
“This feels like our first case, all over again.”  
   
“God I hope not Kent, I hope not.”  
   
Chandler was silent, looking at the body, as if he was willing it to reveal its secrets.  
   
The silence that had fallen over the room was broken by the opening of a door.  
   
“Do you mind turning that phone off in here?”  
   
The man who was standing in the doorway, not wearing the clear blue plastic sheeting that permitted him entrance.  
   
“Sorry ma'am, but DI Chandler, I've got a message for you.”  
   
Chandler frowned, and looked at the nervous young man.  
   
“Well, out with it?”  
   
The man shook his head and proffered the phone that he was brandishing.  
   
“It's on here, I can't come in, but it's- well, it came from an unidentified number and they appear to-”  
   
Chandler shook his head, and gestured to Kent to take the phone from him.  
   
“It's already open, I brought it here the moment I got it. I don't know how they got my number.”  
   
Kent rubbed the screen with the edge of his sleeve, squinting at the dark screen in the light room.  
   
“Should I read it out loud sir?”  
   
Chandler nodded, and Kent started to read.  
   
“ _The body in your morgue was discovered at 2:15 this morning. The cause of death was a cut throat, repeated three times. I am not the murderer. Don't touch anything, I'll be there shortly. Sherlock Holmes._ ”  
   
~  
   
It was raining faintly. John hadn't noticed when he'd headed out to gather the needed groceries, but his beige woollen jumper kept him warm and relatively dry. After contemplating going for the original market experience for a few moments, John had veered, as ever towards the hustle and bustle of the supermarket.  
   
It had been quiet for the last few days, with their latest case ending with yet another success for team Sherlock and John. Sherlock had been relatively mild mannered after that conclusion, and the tunes that he'd been playing on his violin were in tune, if not recognisable.  
   
Even the light patter of rain couldn't dampen John's spirits. Even his own work had been improving, and he'd secured a semi-permanent contract. He'd gone over to Sarah's to celebrate, and Sherlock, obviously making a conscious effort to show at least some human emotions, hadn't interrupted their dinner date, which had lead to John going back to Sarah's for the evening. He'd held off the eventual phone call until John had been about to start his first coffee of the morning. Sherlock might be turning into a good man, but he wasn't beyond being childish.  
   
The supermarket was busy, but not overly so. It was passable at any rate, not full of screaming children, or old people, with nothing better to do with their day. It was the perfect snapshot of life in London, or so it seemed to John. Even the cashiers weren't too busy, meaning that he wouldn't have to tackle one of the infernal self-service machines. He patted his left pocket, feeling the outline of his wallet, his own wallet for once, and filled with his own money. Sherlock's credit card had been left at home, with its rightful owner for once. It was one of those wholly positive days, John found.  
   
After hooking the basket over his arm, a habit that he'd never been able to break after using the cane, although he had long since stopped using it, and collecting the everyday items of milk, bread and toilet rolls, John looked around the shop. Sherlock had asked him to get some things for his 'experiments', John couldn't fathom what half a litre of Vanilla essence, a bag of wine gums, a cherry pie and cheapest port that he could lay his hands on would be relevant to. He was just placing the port into his basket, looking around the alcohol aisle and sighing, when his pocket buzzed.  
   
There were only a limited number of people who would be texting John, and although he didn't have the detective's intuitive skills, it was almost inevitable for the message to be from Sherlock. When he wrestled the phone out of the pocket of his jeans, he stared at the small envelope for a moment, it could be anything. He almost shoved the gadget, it was still too fancy for him to acknowledge it as his, he didn't really understand technology in the same way that his sister did. But he hesitated, it could be something dangerous.  
   
The basket was unhooked from his arm and left next to the 2-for-1 offer on Stella, all thoughts of food and groceries dashed out of his mind. The text message had been built up of two things, the address that he was giving to the nearest cabbie, and the words “Come at once.”  
   
They had another case.  
   
~  
   
Sherlock was drumming his fingers against the edge of the taxi's window, with his phone resting in his other hand. Although the driver clearly had no idea of the importance of this drive, it felt as though he was purposefully taking as long as he could to get Sherlock to his required destination. He wasn't, of course, the cabbie was being distracted by the recent miscarriage that his girlfriend had suffered a week ago, but that was no excuse for tardiness.  
   
When the taxi eventually drew up, Sherlock unfolded himself from the backseat, and all but threw the money towards the driver. He didn't smile, and he didn't offer a tip, yet the same that he had provided was overly generous, for the time that the journey had taken. John would be pleased that he hadn't pointed out the driver's unfortunate circumstances, but there was not rationality to it. It simply didn't matter.  
   
His smile felt strange on his face, as he looked at the bland receptionist.  
   
Hello sir. Is there anything that I can do to help you with today?”  
   
Sherlock interrupted her spiel.  
   
“DI Chandler is expecting me, he's in the morgue, I know. I'll show myself down.”  
   
The location of the morgue was always one of the most obvious, and Sherlock had no problems in locating the crowded room, filled with both the living and the dead.  
   
He pushed the door open, stepping to the sterile environment. There was a cough, which interrupted the stunned silence of his entry.  
   
“Excuse me.”  
   
It was the pathologist in charge, Sherlock smiled again, a little more genuinely this time.  
   
“Of course Dr Llewellyn, however you've got a murder of a woman, in her mid-to-late thirties, and I would very much like to examine the body. So, if you don't mind?”  
   
The oldest man in the room, who looked strangely familiar for a brief moment, stared at him.  
   
“Who are you?”  
   
The sergeant, he was clearly the sergeant, coming up for retirement, but too closely attached to his team to leave until he was forced, scowled as his question went unanswered.  
   
“I believe that DS Miles asked you a question.”  
   
And that was Chandler, it had to be Chandler, he fitted both the profiles that Sherlock had read about, and heard about from his links in the police force, but more convincingly his appearance had gone all but unchanged since he was splashed across the newspapers, two years ago.  
   
“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and you're the man who failed to catch the Ripper. You're in no position to judge Detective Inspector.”  
   
Chandler swallowed, but stood his ground. However the young DC in the room with them wasn't able to disguise his emotions quite so easily, and the indifference to Sherlock's presence changed into a look of outright discontent.  
   
People were so easy to read.  
   
Sherlock shook his head.  
   
“Look, what do you known about the murder of Frances Coles?”  
   
Chandler shook his head.  
   
“No, that was the name of the last victim of the new Ripper, we saved her. She wasn't murdered.”  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shoved his hands into his coat pocket; morgues were never the warmest of places.  
   
“No, I'd have thought that you'd done your research properly after the mess you made of the Ripper case. On the 13th February, 1891, was the last of the so called Whitechapel murders, the last victim was Frances Coles. Found at 2:15 in the morning, on Chamber Street, with her throat slit three times and no other bodily mutilations. You've got yourselves another copy cat gentlemen, now, if I could be permitted to look at the body?”  
   
Chandler brought two of his fingers to his temples, closing his eyes and groaning gently.  
   
Miles crossed his arms, and nodded to Dr. Llewellyn, who let Sherlock view the body. Kent was standing stock still, seemingly having frozen with the knowledge.  
   
“Oh great. This is going to be fun.” 

   
[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | Chapter 1 | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)  



	3. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 2**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 2  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

It was raining harder when John got out of the taxi, it seemingly having followed him from the supermarket to the police station. John didn't often go to Whitechapel, but before the war, before Sherlock he'd had a girlfriend who lived relatively near to Aldgate East tube station, but he'd never paid much attention to the East End of London before. He supposed that it was a haven of crime and- he'd really been watching too much television.

 

But then, he had been following the news, and the East End was hardly the most conservative part of London. There had been the Second Ripper, who had struck around two years ago. John had heard about it, it was before he met Sherlock, of course, even before he'd come back from Afghanistan. It was the kind of thing that he'd caught up on when he got back to London, the darkness of human nature. He didn't think that people could have it in them to kill in cold murder, and he had to agree with Harry's rage at the failure to capture the man who had taken it upon himself to terrorise the East End. She'd not admitted to being scared, but John knew that she had been. But that was to be expected, she'd mentioned having moved to the area, after, Clara. They didn't talk about it though, it seemed cruel. And then, everything had happened. And that hadn't been it, Sherlock had been busy with the _delightful_ schemes of Moriarty when there had been the second spree of murders, but he knew all about it. How could Sherlock not? It had been a pair of brothers, believing they were the sons of the Kray's who had decided to take revenge on those who incriminated their father. Sherlock had found the case boring when he read of it, saying it had been obvious, far too boring. But John had been horrifically fascinated.

 

He was jaunted out of his thoughts by a passer-by, who gave him a glower and then continued on his way. John knew what he must look like, standing on the chewing gum laden pavement staring into the middle distance. He couldn't quite comprehend why he hadn't taken the Tube from Baker Street. He'd been within site of Baker Street tube when he'd dashed into the taxi and really, it was much more experience to get a cab. Sherlock had been rubbing off on him, clearly. He'd never been so extravagant before. And he could see the tube station from where he stood, it was totally ridiculous, there was a direct tube line from Baker Street to – which station was that again either Whitechapel or Aldgate East anyway? He shook his head, unless Sherlock paid for the cab he'd get the Hammersmith and City back home after Sherlock's newest case had led him the to scene of the crime.

 

It was relatively empty inside, with only a few people milling about. Sherlock would be able to work out names, husbands, favourite food from the little evidence that John could garner. It was always fascinating to watch, to see Sherlock astounding people with the little facts about them that he could gather. Sherlock still sprung it upon him at times, when he wanted some attention or flattery, John thought, leaning casually against John's door, asking how Sarah had liked the necklace that he'd bought. John would shake his head and laugh.

 

“Hello? I'm a colleague of Sherlock Holmes. He's expecting me.”

 

The receptionist stared at him blankly, looking at a spot just over his right shoulder. John turned around to check that Sherlock wasn't standing behind him. He wasn't, when John looked back at the receptionist he frowned then shrugged and turned away from the desk.

 

“So I can go then?”

 

The woman looked back at him, as though she had only seen him there.

 

“Oh, yes, of course sir.”

 

Not many people called John sir these days, he wasn't a sir back in the dreary London city, he was just John. Doctor John, officially, but still, just John. No one looked up to him or put him into a position of authority. He was allowed to simply be.

 

He nodded, courteously but briefly, and reached into his pocket for his phone. He'd just opened up the text message to ask Sherlock where he would be able to locate the morgue, when his phone buzzed.

 

“Down the staircase, third floor down, the door to your right.”

 

Sherlock really was quite brilliant.

 

When he'd followed Sherlock's instructions, and reached the aforementioned location a door swung open, and Sherlock, animated, as only a murder could make him, waved him in.

 

“John! Now, what do you know of the Whitechapel murders?”

 

Sherlock had one hand on his shoulder, as he pushed him into the room. John noticed idly the array of police officers and medial staff in the room. They were looking over the gurney which obviously contained the deceased. He was brought back to Sherlock with a brief shake of his shoulder.

 

“What? The original Jack the Ripper of when the Ripper struck again in 2008? Has it happened again? Is that what this is?”

 

Sherlock frowned, and dropped his hand from John shoulder, shoving it into his pocket, extracting his mobile phone. He looked oddly like he was sulking. John had never found out why he hadn't taken the Jack the Ripper case.

 

“You know I don't like talking about that case. And anyway, not exactly. Leather-Apron, Spring Heeled Jack, Jack the Ripper, the Whitechapel Killer, etcetera etcetera, wasn't the only Whitechapel murderer in that period of the 19th century. Only five killing are attributed to the original murderer, but there were more. Many more, and one of these was the murder of Frances Coles. And it is her murder that has been copied here today, well at 2:15 in the morning to be accurate.”

 

So there was another copy cat killing. Sherlock, who normally found such things boring, was clearly fascinated by the case at hand. John smiled. The other officers in the room frowned as the looked at them, it wasn't that he enjoyed the murders, it was still a human life that had been taken away, but the mystery, the adventure.

 

Sherlock was still talking.

 

“Frances Coles, was similar to the Ripper victims. It's only because her murder took place so late, in 1891, months after the murder of Mary Kelly, that she was discounted, although I think there is plenty of evidence to attest to her being the last victim. She was a drunkard, and a prostitute, and although we can't discover, at least not yet, as to whether our victim was a prostitute, she was certainly a drinker. Frances Coles was found under a railway bridge in Chamber Street, so was our victim. The murder was identical in every possible way. Coles murderer was never found as they believed the murder was “tame”, although she wasn't ripped apart, the vicious slashes to her neck indicates that the killer had every intension of being a violent as he could, just as with Frances Coles. Coles was killed in the early hours of the morning, so was our victim. When Frances Coles was found she was still alive and the police officer heard the murders footsteps walk away. Haunted him till the end of his days they say.”

 

Sherlock looked, terribly, terribly overjoyed at that. And John couldn't help but smile back, a little tensely. Once he saw the body it would become real for him, but now, for now it was just another mystery. Something of great interest.

 

The medic in charge turned from the body, and turned to face Sherlock. She didn't looked impressed with him, however, she held out her hand for John to shake.”

 

“Dr Llewellyn, pathologist, pleased to meet you.”

 

John shook her hand, politely, and gave slight smile.

 

“Doctor John Watson, friend of Sherlock Holmes, it's a pleasure.”

 

She seemed to accept that, and turned to frown again at Sherlock.

 

“Jane Doe here was alive when she was found as well, Community Support Officer, must have been painful, the poor love.”

 

John bit his lip, he'd been with men who had been injured, held their hands as they died. It was agonising, and to watch the life fall from someone's eyes. It was horrible.

 

It made it seem real.

 

“How was she murdered?”

 

He noticed the light patter of blood on her hands.

 

“Take a look for yourself doctor.”

 

The men in the room all turned from the body, almost as one. The only way that they could be told apart, they were all suits and ties and heavy faces, were their hair and their hands. The eldest was his arms crossed defensively around his chest, the youngest hands were shoved in his pockets. The other, the DI, even John could tell that he was a DI's hands were floundering.

 

Llewellyn gestured towards the neck of the corpse on the gurney, he followed the line of her finger.

 

“As you can see, there are-”

 

“Harry?”

 

~

 

Kent watched the silence of the room after the door swung shut. Chandler looked slightly ill, he always appeared to be ill when something in the case was outside of his control. He supposed it was better than his solution with the Krays. However much Chandler had a certain charm when he had drunk too much, that smile wasn't comforting on a case.

 

Chandler turned to the figure of Sherlock, who was still darting his eyes over the body, and his hands were hovering over the injuries, tracing over them like a lover. Tracking where the knife would have struck.

 

“Harry? Does your associate know the- victim?”

 

Chandler was normally steadier when talking to suspects, but the cold rationality in the man's, in Sherlock's eyes as he looked over the body was making him falter.

 

Sherlock frowned, for a brief moment, staring at the body's closed eyes.

 

“Harry? Does John know a Harry... Of course. Must be his sister, Harriet Watson. Anyway. Could you pass me a swab?”

 

Miles' face closed, like the slamming of a book, he cast one look of disgust over Sherlock, who was still bent examining the deceased.

 

He put a hand on Kent's shoulder, patting it gently.

 

“His sister? Good god. Go after him lad. And tell Mansell that we've got a positive identification-”

 

“-Miss Harriet Watson, 36, sister of Doctor John Watson.”

 

Sherlock appeared to be taking this investigation in his stride, no matter of the consequences.

 

“When I want your opinion, _sir_ , I shall ask for it.”

 

Kent closed the door behind him, before he could see the argument. He didn't want the shouting to reverberate down the corridor.

 

He was used to interviewing witnesses, when he'd first joined the team he hadn't been good at even that. But eventually that had become his role, Miles would work with which ever DI they'd been given. Fitz, Sanders and McCormack, poor McCormack would do the leg work, and Kent would be diverted from the action to talk to the witnesses, to listen to them cry and to try and make sense of their stories.

 

He'd got quite good at it.

 

That had all changed when Chandler had arrived though, through the course of the Ripper investigation he'd still been talking to suspects more than getting involved with the investigation. But Chandler made sure that all the team were, well, part of the team. Chandler would choose to take Kent with him, rather than anyone, and Kent felt like his contribution was being respected. That he was being respected. Chandler respected him.

 

Of course, he still spoke to suspects and witnesses alike. He'd been good at gathering information. And then there had been the Kray's.

 

Kent still flinched if someone came up behind him unexpectedly.

 

He tried to suppress it, but the first time that Chandler had put a hand on his hip without warning, he'd lashed out. It hadn't helped that he'd been in empty office. There were too many bad memories held in connection with the Kray's case. 

 

“Sir? John Watson?”

 

The shorter man looked up at him blankly. His eyes betraying the enforced calm that had been plastered onto his face. He looked awful, he looked shellshocked. Kent couldn't blame him. To find something out like this, like _that_.

 

John wasn't shaking exactly, not from what Kent could tell, but his hands were slammed into his pockets, the material being worried intensely.

 

So Kent did the only thing that he could think of. He bought John a cup of tea. Steering John towards the cafe, although it was little more than just a collection of benches and a coffee machine, he stepped back. Allowing John to choose where he wished to sit, it was basic technique, so as not to put pressure on the victim. Not that John was the victim as such, the family member. Not that he hadn't suffered.

 

“I hate to do this sir, but-” “-Stop calling me sir, it's John-” “-very well John. Is there anything about your sister that you think could be relevant to this enquiry?”

 

John snorted, one of those harsh laughs, that Kent recognised. It was never a good side.

 

“I'm assuming that this is definitely a murder enquiry then?”

 

That laugh always sounded so wrong coming out of the bereaved. Kent tried not to flinch. But it seemed so make worse when the laughed stopped, and John's body kept shaking.

 

The plastic cup was showering John's hands with hot droplets of badly made tea. He didn't even flinch.

 

Kent winced as he took the shaking cup from John's hands, the tremor abating slightly, now that John had nothing to hold.

 

“Can I have a moment to myself please? I, I need to take it in.”

 

Kent nodded, not wholly satisfied that he shouldn't stay with him, and stepped away.

 

Still watching John he extracted his phone from his jacket pocket -it made the cut of his trousers swell oddly if he left it in his pocket.

 

Mansell was clearly bored, as he picked up on the second ring.

 

“Kent? I think I've got a lead. There's a missing woman, reported about a week ago-”

 

Kent remembered being the new boy in the group, always very pleased and keen to help and be involved. It had been Chandler who had made him a proper member of the group. It always appeared to be Chandler.

 

“Mansell, we've got a positive identification for the body.”

 

He could almost hear the wind come out of Mansell's sails.

 

“Oh, who is it? I'll look her up on the database.”

 

He did feel sorry for him, he'd come into the team to replace Sanders and Fitz and was having to make an effort to fit in to the extent that McCormack had. McCormack's death had hit him and Miles the hardest, they'd seen him, and it had been them who had found him. They'd been close in a way that Kent never had been to the team.

 

“Miss Harriet Watson, age 36. Sister of a Doctor John Watson. And we've got another copy-cat killing. Someone's copying-” At this he looked around the emptying room, and hushed his tone as he muttered the words “-the Ripper again. Or at least, we think they are.”

 

Mansell laughed, not out of humour, but Kent still frowned. Mansell hadn't been on the case with them. He didn't know what it had been like, the Ripper wasn't fun. Chandler had nightmares over it still.

 

Kent's nightmares focused in on the Kray's.

 

“Who's idea was that then Kent? Won't have been Skip's he was dead against it last time what what I 'ear.”

 

Kent bit his lip, he wasn't sure how to explain the _other_ detective.

 

“We're... it's complicated. Miles wants you to get all that you can on Watson.”

 

Mansell hummed through the phone.

 

“Yeah, sure. Tell him I'm on it.”

 

He sounded quite dejected, and Kent couldn't blame him. He hung up sharply, Mansell didn't need long goodbyes. With a job to do, the team got down to it and worked.

 

Shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket, he looked at John. Sometimes he forgot that he was dealing with people who had once been alive, this this was more than dead bodies and facts and figures. They were once living, breathing people, with families and friends.

 

Kent looked down, but John coughed.

 

“May I see her? When Sh-Sherlock's finished of course-”, his voice caught in his throat. Kent thought it seemed wrong that John was making allowances for that man's behaviour when it was his sister who he was treating like nothing but a body. He frowned but didn't say anything. “I, want to see her. I need to see her.”

 

~

 

“It's frankly astounding the amount that you can gather from the dead. Both about the murderer and the murdered. Fascinating. ”

 

Sherlock didn't care for the scowls that were following him around the room. There was little case for sentiment, and if the police were going to show their ineptitude yet again, then it made sense for him to step in to the breach.

 

It wasn't quite as dramatic for him to reveal his deductions to an audience who-unlike John- had little care for them, but speaking them aloud at least allowed him to develop the point of thought at a rate that they could at least understand.

 

“If you can tell sexuality from the dead, is it biologically inherent or not? I shall have to think on this further. Despite John having mentioned his sister a few times -very dull, very average- maybe she can redeem herself in death. This is just brilliant.”

 

And it was brilliant. It wasn't the most violent of deaths, nor the most interesting. But there was something about a copy-cat killer. Repeating the crimes of the un-caught. It was as if they wanted to emulate that mystic. Of course, the 2008 Ripper had succeeded. This was a second chance, for Sherlock, to prove his worth against the world's greatest killer. In his head, having read the reports of the Ripper, the original Ripper, he'd known who was a victim and who wasn't. And he'd known that he could have caught him.

 

For the hundredth time he cursed Mycroft, for having him 'indisposed' for the duration of 2008. He was clean. That case was just what he would have needed-

 

“I need the CCTV from Chamber Street. It does have CCTV doesn't it? Or at least some of the shops must have private networks. Get them for me. I need to know what time she was last seen alive and by who.”

 

It was Chandler, who found his tongue at last.

 

“Look we don't have this information. And even if we did, we're not obliged to release it to civilians.”

 

Sherlock grabbed up a pair of rubber gloves from the side and snapped them on. Llwellyn gave him a look but didn't make any effort to stop him from interfering with her lab.

 

“Aren't you meant to be the police? Honestly, aren't you able to do anything?”

 

Not that Sherlock was looking at the team, -two of them in the room, the DI and the DS, it was only a small team, which indicated that the one who had gone after John was the third in command, but still only a DC, and there was another DC back at the station, it was too easy- instead he was rubbing the congealing blood between his finger tips.

 

“We only identified her as Harriet Watson five minutes ago. We cannot be expected to gather such information.”

 

Sherlock tusked, the dead always gave more information than the living anyway.

 

“See, look at the angle of this cut, from the ripped skin it indicates that the killer found the initial cut difficult, from the deception of the body both in 1891 and today, it wasn't a complicated murder. Could have been completed in only seconds, therefore why the struggle. Even Harriet's struggling wouldn't have produced that. The only explanation was that the killer was left handed, but worked with his right. Empirical evidence that this was a copy cat killing.”

 

Chandler, was washing is hands again from the hand pump in the corner of the room. OCD was the relevant explanation, it was barely worth the deduction that it took. Even John could have worked it out, if he hadn't left the room.

 

He looked around.

 

“Remembered your friend now, 'ave you?”

 

And the DS. Sergeant Ray Miles, son of Freddie The Dip, and approaching retirement. With the tenacity of a bull dog, it was artistic language certainly. But suitable.

 

“John, of course.”

 

It was hardly relevant.

 

Chandler frowned, as he continued to rub the foam into the crooks of his fingers. It was hardly a condition that made itself suitable for police work.

 

“He's not human.”

 

And for mistakes for a pathologist to make that was among the worst of them, like not being able to tell if a man was dead or not. He was as human as anyone else in the room, as human as the cold, bloody body of John's sister.

 

Of John's sister.

 

“Get out of this room sir, or I will make you.”

  
[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | Chapter 2 | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	4. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 3**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 3  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

It was different, looking at a body for a case, someone who you needed to avenge and looking at a body because you'd once knew them when they'd flirted with your girlfriends and forced you to go clubbing with them. It was very different.

 

It had been like it in Afghanistan. When the only reason that a person died was because they'd stood in the wrong place when the bullet was fired. When they'd died with their blood on John's hands. After John had struggled in the heat of battle to save them, and it had been their lives which had bleed into the dusty floor.

 

They'd been flown home in coffins, with their family informed from a distance, and the entire country mourning a private loss publicly.

 

It made it hard to come back from Afghanistan wounded. A wounding was only a wounding, in contrast to those who had given their lives in service to their country. People had died for John's limp.

 

Died screaming in John's own arms, as he'd fought to stay conscious with a bullet in his shoulder.

 

In comparison Harry looked peaceful. As if she'd only fallen asleep. But he could stop himself from hearing Sherlock's gleeful voice descriptive her death. Frances Coles death. It echoed his head.

 

 _Frances Coles, was similar to the Ripper victims. It's only because her murder took place so late in 1891, months after the murder of Mary Kelly, that she was discounted, although I think there is plenty of evidence to attest to her being the last victim._

 

Harry hadn't been a bad sort, she'd been kind, friendly and graceful in her way. Bubbly would be the world be the word to describe her, shorter than even John with a laugh like a mix between a cackle and a blocked drain.

 

 _She was a drunkard, and a prostitute, and although we can't discover, at least not yet, as to whether our victim was a prostitute, she was certainly a drinker._

 

When she hadn't been drinking. John never agreed with her drinking. And she could only have been at the pub, the only explanation as to why she was out so late at night, that she'd been at the pub. But Harry had always been such a social drinker. John thought that she was planning to cut down, with a bitter catch in his throat, he realised that she'd certainly cut down now.

 

 _Frances Coles was found under a railway bridge in Chamber Street, so was our victim._

 

The policing team were standing behind him, John could feel their gazes on his neck. It was like Afghanistan again, being the person who had to report the death, who had to turn to face them and explain that their friend was never coming back, expect Harry was already dead.

 

And everyone knew that.

 

“I'm so sorry for your loss.”  

 

 _The murder was identical in every possible way._

 

She hadn't deserved this.

 

 _Coles murderer was never found as they believed the murder was “tame”, although she wasn't ripped apart, the vicious slashes to her neck indicates that the killer had every intension of being a violent as he could, just as with Frances Coles._

 

Not Harry, no matter what childish squabbles they had had when they were young. No matter how many times that they'd nearly come to blows over her drinking. No matter the amount that John had disapproved of the hasty marriage between her and Clara, and the separation that had broken them both.

 

She didn't deserve to die.

 

No one deserved to die.

 

Not like this.

 

S _he wasn't ripped apart, the vicious slashes to her neck indicates that the killer had every intension of being a violent as he could_

 

She would have been in such pain.

 

 _The murder was identical in every possible way._

 

John didn't deserve to find out like this.

 

 _Coles was killed in the early hours of the morning, so was our victim._

 

He shouldn't have found about the murder of his sister through Sherlock. Through her being nothing but a body for Sherlock's talent to shine through. For the first time since Mike had introduced them, John cursed Sherlock.

 

He should have known this.

 

Should have stopped this.

 

Should have told John.

 

When Harry died, had her throat ripped open, he'd been laughing with Sherlock over the state of the flat. There'd been a knife embedded in the door-frame, which Sherlock swore was the result of a fight with a gangland member, but John thought had been a result of Sherlock's boredom. Their sleep patterns had been disturbed due to the case that had been completed. Two in the morning evenings were nothing peculiar.

 

They'd toasted their successes.

 

 _When Frances Coles was found she was still alive and the police officer heard the murders footsteps walk away._

 

He hadn't even thought of Harry.

 

 _Haunted him till the end of his days they say._

 

He'd not even felt anything.

 

 _Haunted him till the end of his days they say._

 

“Sir? John?”

 

 _Haunted him till the end of his days they say._

 

“I think I need to leave.”

 

~

 

It wasn't that John was a suspect, but the fact that he'd just disappeared after he'd left the morgue worried the team. It worried Kent most of all, and Chandler could tell, as the younger man worried his hands deep in his jacket pocket. The fingers playing over the phone.

 

He'd hoped that Kent had remembered to lock the screen, the noise of his fingers pressing the buttons idly was softly rhythmic. There was a beep and Kent swore, under his breath. Taking the phone out he jabbed the stop call button.

 

“Sorry sir.”

 

The vibrating against Chandler's chest stopped.

 

He wondered where he was on Kent's address book.

 

“I hope the brother's alright sir.”

 

Chandler nodded, he'd hung back to talk to Kent. There was something securing about the man's presence, steady, dependable, reliable.

 

He'd never really made up for what he had accused Kent of. Not even when Kent had forgiven him.

 

Miles was walking ahead, taking the helm as Chandler realised, yet again, the bitter truth behind investigating murders. The death toll. Chandler knew that eventually Miles would retire, and that he would need to be able to support himself. But Miles' gruff presence was calming, in a different way from Kent's.

 

Whilst Kent, it had been cynically muttered, hero-worshipped Chandler, worshipping the ground he walked on, blindly following him, Miles had faith in him. In his detective skills, in the fact that he wasn't Abberline, that he wasn't Nipper Read. That he was Joseph Chandler, and that he was capable. And that meant a lot.

 

“I thought I told you to get out. I don't want you involved in this investigation. It's not just not right.”

 

Chandler looked at Kent, who shrugged. They could both guess who their unwelcome guest was, and Miles had only ordered one person away.

 

So Chandler wasn't surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, all but flounce out of the office, his coat swirling around him. The scowl on his face wasn't a surprise either, but the huge fake smile that lit up his face threw him slightly.

 

“I'll see you at the crime scene, Inspector.”

 

“You're not welcome there-”

 

But Sherlock had, as Chandler expected of him, walked out of the corridor the moment he'd made his statement. It was as if he expected the world to bend to his will.

  
There was something distantly criminal about Sherlock Holmes.

 

Kent flinched as Sherlock brushed past him, and Chandler, almost unconsciously took a hand to his shoulder.

 

Miles was standing, arms crossed and head cocked as Chandler and Kent walked in together. For all that Miles valued him as a team member, policeman and as an overall person there was always something threatening about him. Especially when he looked at him like that. Chandler dropped his hand.

 

“How did he get in here Mansell?”

 

Mansell's eyes darted to Kent, just for a fraction of a moment, and Chandler held in the urge to look at the man himself. He didn't know when the team would get over what had happened, at heart he wasn't sure if they every would, not _really_.

 

“Sorry sir. He just wouldn't leave.”

 

There was an awkward silence, which Kent tried to break, but Chandler saw out of the corner of his eye Kent opening his mouth, and then swallowing whatever he was going to say as he bit his lip.

 

Chandler coughed.

  
That seemed to snap the team back into some form of response.

 

“Right, Kent, set up the whiteboard. We need to get to work. Especially as it seems that we have the unwelcome help of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Miles threw Kent the whiteboard eraser that was on his desk, just before Kent used his sleeve to clear the board.

 

Chandler shuddered, and nodded to Miles, who shrugged.

 

“Can't you speak to 'an old family friend?' or something? Get rid of him. He's going to be a nuisance.”

 

Chandler held up a hand, and walked through the room into his office. His jacket came off slung over his chair, followed by watch, phone, badge, pen arranged geometrically.

 

Miles rapped his knuckles at the door, but didn't enter.

 

Chandler stood, and after arranging his watch strap that it stayed just-so, he followed Miles out of the room.

 

The whiteboard was set up, it wasn't clearly defined, the photos hadn't been sent though from the morgue, and Chandler could see in the printer tray, the image of Frances Coles.

  
“Well?”

 

“The Commander's on holiday, it's out of my hands I'm afraid Miles. Just, try and avoid him?”

 

Mansell looked up, despite of his friendship with Miles, and McCormack, Chandler expected that he still felt excluded from the framework of the team.

 

They needed something like this to bring them together as a group. As long as nothing went wrong.

 

“Sherlock Holmes? The man who was in here earlier guv?”

 

Chandler nodded, and Mansell shrugged.

 

“He's like a bad penny sir, just keeps cropping up.”

 

Chandler felt the need to go and straighten his tie, to go and check the arrangement on his desk. He didn't know what it was, but something was making him feel decidedly vulnerable, something was making him stressed. He didn't like Sherlock Holmes. That much was self evident.

 

“Sir?”

 

Chandler shook his head at Kent's look of worry.

 

“It's nothing. I can deal with it. Now, what information do we have? Miles, the report on similarities between Frances Coles if you would. Legibly.”

 

Miles scowled but turned to the whiteboard, the information that Llewellyn had provided them, filled the second section of the board. Grudgingly he wrote on Sherlock's deductions. The question mark that he finished it off with was dotted so violently that the nub of the pen sank a little way back into its case.

 

Kent snorted.

 

“Mansell? You find anything?”

 

The print out that Mansell was holding had clearly been folded and re-folded, and was littered with annotations. It was self-evident that Mansell had indeed found something. Still, it seemed polite.

 

“I've got a rough background on Harriet Watson sir.”

 

Chandler nodded, and looked at the board, with it's spaces for photographs of the dead.

 

“Let's hear it then. We know a lot about the murder, anything else can only help, any motive.”

 

“Kent said that you suspected it to be a copy-cat killing sir.”

 

Kent looked down, he was still worried about doing things wrong. He wasn't very good at hiding it. He was so scared of Chandler opinion. It worried Chandler, when they'd first met Kent had gone beyond the call of duty, to accept Chandler into the team, to let him lead. He respected the younger man.

 

He wondered if Miles had ever told him what Chandler had said after Kent's attack.

 

“Yes, we do.” And they were a team after all “But we need anything that we can get our hands on.”

 

Mansell smiled, and shook the sheet of paper in front of him.

 

“Well sir, Harriet Watson, apparently known as Harry, married, no children. But she's splitting up with her wife of three years. A Mrs C. Watson, nee Thornes. She is, was a known alcoholic, arrested for drunk and disorderly in 2006, but the charges were dropped against her. There isn't a record of why. One elder brother, John Watson, as doctor returned from Afghanistan about a year ago.”

 

Miles gestured to the paper, which Mansell, in charming fashion as ever, balled up before he threw it. Miles caught it, and flattening it against the wall, began to write

 

“Yeah, we met him. He's the one that identified the body.”

 

“Her brother? Christ.”

 

Chandler shook his head, it could have meant anything.

 

“We've got no motive. No suspect. Nothing-”

 

At least with some crimes there was a starting point, and yet with the 'interesting' cases it was always so much harder.

 

“A lovers tiff sir?”

 

Mansell scoffed at Kent, as he read the wounds inflicted to Harriet's neck on the board.

 

“You think a woman could have made those wounds?”

 

Kent looked down, flustered.

 

Sometimes, Chandler truly felt like a teacher in charge of a boisterous class of boys. 

 

“I think, we've got to accept that this is another copy-cat killing. It copies the murder of Frances Coles exactly. Gentlemen, I hate to say it but the Ripper's struck again.”

 

Miles turned from the board.

 

“And I know that I hate to say it sir, but should someone talk to Buchan? He loves this stuff.”

 

Chandler shook his head, although in his own mind he'd already taken Buchan's book out of the drawer that he kept it in and turned to the index.

 

“No, he's got his own theories on the Ripper, there's no way that he'll acknowledge this as a Ripper copy. And after what he did last time, I don't know if he'd want to associate himself with that anymore.”

 

It was Kent's turn to scoff.

 

“Of course he would sir. He loves -all this. Don't he?”

 

Chandler sighed, the team accepting Buchan, at least to a certain extent was a sign of them growing up. But it just wasn't helpful. Not now.

 

“Look, he's visiting his mother anyway. He's somewhere in Wales or somewhere.”

 

Miles raised an eyebrow and just looked at Chandler. He fought down the urge to look ashamed of himself, there were complications between Buchan and the team, but that was no reason to be ashamed of the man. He had proved himself useful on occasion.

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Kent crossed his arms across his chest.

 

“He told me, insistently. Invited me to join him.”

 

Kent tightened his hold on his upper arms, and Chandler could see the imprint of his fingers on the sleeve of his jacket. He suspected that when Kent let go there would with be the impression of them there. He was grinding his teeth.

 

Chandler couldn't help but smile.

 

He wasn't the only person who noticed.

 

“Kent, you're no good standing in the corner sulking. Go and get us all a coffee. Then maybe we can get to work.”

 

“Yes Skip.”

 

~

 

The light patter of rain had abated in the period of time it took John to turn, walk and not look back. Sherlock had gone. Of course he had gone, he had a case and could care less about the little people strewn in his path.

 

Was this how people felt when Sherlock and him swanned into a crime scene like they owned it.

 

It put everything is perceptive.

 

His jumper felt too tight around his throat, as if it was constricting his breathing.

 

Whitechapel high-street was a long winding road to nowhere. Filled with people walking up and down their lives without a care, without looking forward in their lives. Everything focused on today, today and never about tomorrow. About what could happen.

 

He pulled the thick knit away from his throat, taking in gasping breaths.

 

He was spared a passing glance, by one of the nameless faces walking past him.

 

Her eyes were kind and quite unlike Harry's, but there was a look of concern on her face. Just for a second, before she was swallowed into the crowd. He wondered if she was a sister, whether she'd ever picked up her younger brother and took him drinking after he'd been dumped for the first time. Wondered if she'd ever laughed at his appalling jokes until she cried. If she'd ever idly tossed him her car keys in order to impress a girl.

 

He guessed that he'd never know.

 

Sherlock would have known.

 

Harry might even have known, Harry always said that there was something in the eyes of long-suffering elder siblings. She'd meant it jokingly, and would shove John off the arm of the sofa when she'd say it when they were younger. It would generally have been when their parents asked her to baby sit -“I don't need baby sitting, I'm fourteen”- instead of going out. She'd complain, but John had _known_ that she'd enjoyed the impromptu movie nights.

 

John looked back to try and look the woman in the face, and all he caught was the flick of chestnut hair.

 

Everyone had said that Harry and he looked almost identical. He could never tell which of them was more offended by that, although John had taken vindictive pleasure in the fact that his growth spurt -if it could be called that- placed him fractionally taller than Harry. Their hair was the same colour, and she'd gone through a phase of having it cut in a choppy bob.

 

One Halloween, John must have just been leaving school, they'd dressed as the other.

 

Somehow his jumpers managed to achieve compliments on Harry, when they just managed a look akin to a woman presented with a puppy when on him.

 

The wool of his sleeves scratched the sensitive skin around his eye.

 

“Si- John?”

 

He turned around, dropping his hand from his face.

 

It was the young detective from the- who had been with him, who had followed after him and taken him back to Harry.

 

He was half convinced that he'd been followed yet again, when eh saw the cardboard tray of cups in the man's hand.

 

Kent, his name was Kent.

 

“Sorry, just been sent on a tea run.”

 

Kent looked down at the four cups, of varying size, and John noticed brand. It took a moment to realise that Kent was averting his eyes from John's.

 

“I'm sorry. For your sister.”

 

John nodded and turned his head, as if to turn away.

 

Kent stopped him with a movement that threatened to upend the drinks in his hands. Some of them were coffee, John could smell the aroma.

 

He just wanted to go home.

 

“You didn't get to drink any of the tea at the station, take mine. I insist.”

 

John began to shake his head but then the full force of the day fit him with the power of a London bus. He'd had very little sleep for the last three days, he hadn't eaten that morning, drunk very little, and been told, in the worse way possible, about Harry. It didn't take an army medic to realise that he had every chance of falling into shock.

 

He reached out his hand.

 

“Not that one John,” Kent indicated with his head “the boss likes green tea, thought I'd get 'im one for the-”

 

Kent trailed off, blushing slightly, and John took the cup next to the aforementioned.

 

It was coffee, hot and stinging. He swallowed it down, relishing the burn.

 

He winced, and when he opened his eyes he saw Kent looking at him, concerned.

 

He was just about to alleviate the tension that had fallen over the dreary pavement when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

As he swapped his coffee into his other hand, he noted Kent look subtly at his watch.

 

Kent backed away, with a guilty grimace on his face.

 

John understood.

 

He was involved in investigating the _murder_ of his sister.

 

He opened the message on his phone with more ferocity than it warranted.

 

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | Chapter 3 | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	5. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 4**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 4  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

The name Joseph Chandler opened more doors than that of DI Lestrade, Sherlock noted with delight, cataloguing the information for later.

 

He'd known that a branch of the force had been corrupted and the surreptitiously purged and reformed but he hadn't realised how high the fallen had risen.

 

The change in the police force was makeable.

 

He hadn't gone to the extent of picking the other man's pocket, he could see his badge anyway, tucked with great order and care into a inside pocket. Chandler would have missed it. Considering the fold the material around the pocket and the excessive shine of the badge itself it was clearly part of a system, the man's OCD was the most likely explanation. No, Chandler would have noticed if Sherlock had pocketed that, and he supposed that Chandler would be more widely recognised within the force that Lestrade anyway.

 

It would be helpful to have powerful allies.

 

The dozy eyed policewoman who was standing at the crime-scene, only appeared to snap to attention when Sherlock flashed the name “Chandler” at her.

 

There had to be some history, or background of allowing civilians into crime-scenes for the reaction to be quite so smoothed.

 

No, there was certainly something about Joseph Chandler, as average as a detective that he was, he had to have links and connections, easy enough to imply that from his background he had some links with the higher families of police, his range could even extend to Commander Anderson. It seemed logical after all, if he had this much disposable power.

 

And yet, he still didn't evict Sherlock from his investigation. Not officially, it wasn't that he'd be able to Mycroft could get through any bars laid down by the police in order for Sherlock to continue. He was good for that, sometimes apart from last time.

 

Buchan. It was a name the stuck out in his mind, for the briefest of moments the thought was unplaced and unlinked, but then the rest of the thought flew down his impulses.

 

Of course Chandler had a history of using civilians.

 

He'd have to apply himself to his newspapers when this case was finished, he couldn't do with such vital evidence and information not coming straight to hand.

 

The tent was a blank, white affair, sticking out from under the railways bridge. There was someone inside, there was a slight murmuring from within, and Sherlock just knew that he wouldn't get anything from there.

 

The police tape, which had been stretched from a street sign to a lamp post, was more of an invitation than a warning.

 

“Idiots.”

 

Of course, this being the police, something vital had been overlooked.

 

He ducked back under the tape, and bracketed his fingers above the sign declaring “Chamber Street”. The small smudge of rusty blood, it had bled in the rain, but the consistency was clearly that of blood rather than the paint that also adorned the sign.

 

He recognised the tag.

 

FOPS*

 

He'd look into it, but it clearly wasn't relevant to his investigation, the blood had been applied afterwards, weeks afterwards. This wasn't a masonic ritual, after all. Whilst some amateurs published theories related to the Masons, this wasn't it. Graffiti, could on occasion, just be graffiti.  

 

But the blood, there wasn't enough for it to be relevant to the investigation, not the murder. The streets would have been, all but empty so early in the morning, before the bin men had started their routes but after the pubs had began to wind down. The blood could easily have been related to others, however there had been a cut on the palm of the body. The angle of it, clearly showed that Harriet had snagged her hand before her death.

 

One pain pre-empting another.

 

It didn't take a genius to work out that Harriet's path, which had taken her winding under the railway bridge, was on her way home. It had only taken a few moments to look up Harriet's address, and it did indeed lie in this unsavoury district.

 

Sherlock didn't even need to turn around to recognise the pub behind him.

 

So Harriet, an alcoholic, had been out late. John claimed that Harriet had been a social drinker, and only tended to binge when depressed, given evidence that she had been with someone for the evening. This evening hadn't ended well. From the lack of identification on Harriet, and personal effects, she'd either left or lost her mobile and purse, in the bar. They could have been stolen, but hat was unlikely, considering that her jewellery was still in place.

 

And the killer was only feet away from the body when it was found.

 

So she'd been drinking. It wasn't even a supposition, it was simple truth.

 

And she'd been drinking socially, her dress and the smudges of makeup around her eyes and hands proved that point. Which meant that there would be people that recognised her, even if she hadn't had a companion the bar would have had fellow drinkers. But makeup, the makeup indicated that she'd been planning to meet someone purposefully. Descriptions of Harriet didn't show her to be the sort of woman who dressed up without occasion. This was going to be easier than he'd expected.

 

Momentarily distracted by the buzzing in his coat pocket, he reached down and extracted the phone that he was using today.

 

John.

 

 _No. No, I won't. You really don't understand anything do you?_

 

And Sherlock, for once, was happy to acknowledge that he didn't understand. John strove to bring people to justice. Whilst Sherlock was involved in detection for the thrill, John was in it for the people. And couldn't understand what greater motivation there was than to avenge one's sibling's murder. Had it been Mycroft he'd have taken the case, no matter how dull a murder it had been. He couldn't quite trace why.

 

He turned back to the tent.

 

~

 

John hadn't used the underground since he'd got back from the war. Sherlock's aversion to them had led to taxis and buses, the above ground transport being a more practical means of getting about the town. He suspected that, in part, Sherlock was claustrophobic, he'd never take the lift when he could take the stairs and he'd stand for hours just watching the rain tumble down the windowpane. After Afghanistan John had taken against large open spaces, he wasn't scared of them, but he didn't like to stand and see the horizon spread out on every side of him. The smog-stained Edwardian buildings, the bumbling crowds of London, they reminded him that life still needed living.

 

He'd forgotten just how busy it could be.

 

The platform had been nearly empty at Aldgate East, and he'd stood rocking on the balls of his feet, worrying the cardboard ticket between his fingers. Intertwining it between thumb and forefinger. Harry had told him to get the Tube down to visit him, Sherlock had borrowed his phone and tossed it towards him with a mutter of 'boring'. It had been Harry, of course, having had a burst of sisterly love, and invited him to come down to Sunday lunch with her. She'd recommended the tube as well, _get Hmmrsmth + Cty to Aldgate E and ill pick u up. Sis! xoxo_ He hated her text speak. He didn't always understand it, how she, as the older sister was able to be the technical one as well, he had to read it over twice. He'd planned to go down and visit her, he really had, but then Sherlock had monopolised his time. As ever. She was clearly making an effort to patch the bond between them, because she didn't rant and rave about the fact that she'd been standing outside the station for two hours after he said he'd be there. She just smiled tightly and said that “These things happen.” He couldn't remember if he'd apologised properly. He wished he had now. He still had the text on his phone. He didn't take it out to read it.

 

The train filled up as he got closer into central London, and by Baker Street he could understand Sherlock's hatred of being closed in. It was strange, people were laughing, sharing headphones, kissing, living. Life always went on. He'd learnt this in the war, he'd learnt that death wasn't the end, and that the living had to go on living.

 

Harry had gone to the Cenotaph the year he'd got back from the war. He didn't realise that she'd be there, and had been shocked to see her crying.

 

It wasn't raining when he emerged from the station, but the clouds were still hanging heavily over the London skyline. So much for pathetic fallacy, the weather didn't reflect the mood, it just echoed the seasons. It didn't stop it being cold, however, and John shivered wrapping his arms around himself. It wasn't a long walk back to 221b, as it sat on Baker Street itself he could almost see it from the station.

 

His keys were warm against his leg, deep in the pocket of his jeans, and it was an automatic response to the location for him to fish them out and shove them, -roughly, after he'd missed the first time- into the keyhole. He hovered momentarily in the small hallway, but the house was silent. Mrs Hudson was out, she'd mentioned something about visiting her- sister. And Sherlock. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be there. Even as John trod his way up the seventeen step staircase he knew that there was no point of wishful thinking, Sherlock would be engrossed in the case. He always was.

 

His phone buzzed as he entered the empty living room, the sensation of it irritating his thigh. He extracted it slowly, as though it were something important. It wasn't, and instead of answering the electronic call, he let it clatter down onto the table, probably disrupting one of Sherlock's experiments.

 

~

 

It only took a look, without eyebrows slightly raised for Miles to pass his empty cardboard cup to Kent as he walked passed. He did so hate an untidy office, whilst he knew that there was very little that he could do about the state of the desks themselves, clutter was the line that Chandler drew.

 

He passed Kent his own cup with a small smile, their fingers brushing fractionally and Kent flinched.

 

“Kent?”

 

He smiled again and Kent looked down. He knew that he shouldn't, but there was something delightful about teasing Kent, especially in the office. Miles snorted.

 

“I'm fine sir, just a bit jittery.”

 

Which didn't make sense in itself, Chandler had noted, with what the cynic would smirk at as the detective's eye for accuracy, that the younger man hadn't brought himself a drink. There had only been three cups, even though the holder had been designed for four.

 

Kent's blush was creeping up his cheeks as he turned sideways to pass Chandler. When he'd been new to the team, all those years ago, he'd have stood up, to make way for Kent to pass, but now Kent's calves brushed Chandler's knees.

 

The paper cups were crumpled in his hands just before being tossed into the bin. Kent's aim was good, good enough for only a few drops of cold coffee to anoint the bin, it could have been worse. Chandler wasn't quite sure how it was Kent who was still tidying up after the team, but then he only had to say jump and Kent would ask how high. It had got them in trouble before, the Krays, it worried Chandler slightly.

 

“We should make a head-start on the enquiry, really get ourselves stuck in, Miles, Kent, with me.” He would have been satisfied with that, the three of them worked well as a team, but then his eyes caught Mansell's as he looked away. He looked disappointed, and he tried to hide it.

 

It wasn't Mansell's fault he hadn't been with them initially; that the team had bonds that had been made and gilded through Jack the Ripper's vicious attacks had excluded him. He didn't have the relationship with Chandler that Miles and Kent did, he knew of Chandler than him in himself. He wasn't a proper member of the team, his links had been with McCormack and to a lesser extend Miles, and they'd been severed. It had formed that Miles had worked with McCormack and Chandler with Kent, and not wanting to replace McCormack, there was no place for Mansell. And that would only change with inclusion.

 

Kent was reaching to his jacket, short, cut off at the waist and clashing terribly with his suit, when Chandler shook his head.

 

“No, Kent? Have you got your Vespa with you?”

 

Kent frowned, cocking his head. It did seem like a pointless question, Kent didn't drive anywhere, Chandler didn't even know if he had a license to drive anything with more than two wheels, and if the younger man was anywhere he'd travelled on his bike. It was so- orange.

 

Kent had been so happy when he'd got his Vespa. He'd come into the office, his helmet under his arm, beaming. He'd been mocked, of course he had, but nothing had been able to wipe the smile from his face. The old pedal bike that Kent had used when they'd first met had been relegated. The use of the Vespa softened Kent's toned muscles, Chandler didn't mind. He'd had been shocked the first time he'd seen the Vespa though, parked, innocently against his car. A blur of fluorescent orange against pale silver. Kent had offered him a lift, once, he'd accepted and it had terrified him. He was much more one of the refined aptitude of driving.

 

“Of course sir, it's out in the car park, sir.”

 

Chandler nodded again.

 

“Will you take that? It'll be better if we arrive in different groups. People will listen to you more as an apparent independent. Mansell, with me and Miles.”

 

As tactics went it was slightly manipulative, but Kent, despite of his suits and his obedience always appeared to the outsider not to be a full part of the team. It was something to do with his youth, it was easier to make reluctant witnesses to talk to him than it was to address Miles or himself.

 

Mansell couldn't quite keep the grin off his face, and Chandler smiled.

 

In the system of hierarchy, Chandler drove. He didn't like other people to drive his car, it was something that belonged solely to him, his to use and his to take responsibility for. The only time that he'd allowed himself to be driven was when he'd been drinking, but then, the circumstances that lead him to be determined to drive himself had been... self medicated. It wasn't a place that he wanted to be again.

 

“Eyes on the road sir.”

 

Miles was sitting beside him, riding shotgun, as ever. This left Mansell curled up in the backseat. There was plenty of room in the back of the car, well Chandler had found there to be, but Mansell was shuffling on the leather.

 

“I am perfectly capable of driving Miles.”

 

Mansell gave a bark of laughter.

 

That having been said, Chandler slammed his foot onto the break, as the amber light that he'd been contemplating turned suddenly red. Sometimes the uniformed had be easy with the blues-and-toos. It seemed a little like flash policing though.

 

He drummed the steering wheel, glancing out of his window, to where Kent was waiting patiently for the lights to change.

 

Chandler couldn't decide if Kent wore sunglasses under his helmet when he rode because it was, for some reason safer, or because it furthered the essence of 'cool' that the Vespa brought. He'd never thought to ask. Kent didn't look towards Chandler as the lights changed, instead he overtook the car.

 

It was playful rather than competitive, since Kent didn't have the directions (or the directional skills of Miles gruffly pointing out the right way to go) and Chandler rolled his eyes, and approached the vespa from behind.

 

Kent was wheeling around the traffic in front and behind them like a puppy playing with falling leaves.

 

“We're here sir.”

 

Chandler could have told that himself, from the barriers, the police swarming and the tent, but nevertheless he drew the car up with a nod to Miles. Kent looked back at the parking car and then continued down the street, he gestured his head, he'd turn about and draw up. It seemed the logical solution.

 

He was only half watching the road for the reappearance of Kent as he spoke to the officer on duty, so he didn't resister the harsh squeak of rubber on the tarmac. He'd swerved to avoid someone in the road, the coat, Chandler was sure that it was-

 

“Hey, mate. Don't back into the road. I could have killed you!”

 

Sherlock snorted, and flattened his lapels.

 

“DC Kent, there was no possibility of me sustaining any real damage from such a collision.”

 

Kent scowled and Sherlock gave a sly grin, turning to Chandler.

 

“If you can't control your team Chandler, then please keep them out of my way.”

 

Nodding to the officer in charge, who turned to speak to Miles, Chandler approached Sherlock, who hadn't moved from his position in front of the Vespa. He was penned between Chandler and Kent, like a trapped fox.

 

“You should not be involved in this investigation at all, your presence was not requested, or required. And excluding that you have a personal interest in the victim.”

 

Sherlock actually looked puzzled, for a fraction of a moment his brow furrowed.

 

Chandler rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. Kent was hovered behind Sherlock shoulder, watching the pair of them. Chandler wasn't prone to verbal aggression, not with members of the public, whilst the team had lashed their tongues at Buchan he'd been quietly accepting, he'd not even raised his voice when he'd suspended Kent. But there was something about this Sherlock.

 

“You are not a part of this investigation. Go home.”

 

Kent's eyes darted from his to just behind him, and he knew, he just knew that Miles was standing behind him, he was probably being flanked by Mansell as well. And then suddenly he was angry. He didn't need protecting, he wasn't a child, regardless of what Miles appeared to think.

 

He didn't turn around to face them.

 

“I might not be part of your team DI Chandler, but I'm certainly part of this investigation.”

 

He heard Miles tutting behind him, and clearly this alerted Sherlock, who gave the ghost of a smile. He was less like a cornered fox now, and more like a wild wolf getting ready to strike. Chandler hated that smile, he'd done it when they'd met earlier.

 

“For instance, Ray Miles, although you keep saying that you're going to retire, you don't actually plan to. You dedicate so much of your time to this team, that you think that your loosing your family. But even that can't make you stop. How can you be a useful member of the team if you're worried about Judy, Judith, and your kids? How will you be able to give everything into the investigation. Expect, you just can't stop. And the truth is you are loosing them. And you know it.”

 

He looked so pleased with himself

 

“You have no right to go into my family. Piss off.”

 

And then he laughed, and raised his eyebrows at Mansell.

 

“And then there's the new boy, who feels alienated and is thinking of leaving the team. Oh Chandler, you've got a team made up of the destitute and the broken. And that's not to mention yourself.”

 

Chandler crossed his arms and frowned. The man could within his rights to make a point, but the idle threat that he was willing to foist on the team.

 

“You think that you've overcome your demons. Your little problem with the OCD and the coping strategies, and the fact that you don't think that you can control the team. That they don't like you, or listen to you, or respect you. This is a broken team Chandler, and not to mention the young DC Kent-”

 

“That is enough, Mr Holmes, you will leave this investigation now. Before we have you escorted off the premises.”

 

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pocket, and refused to stop smiling.

 

“If you're still insisting on not working with me, then contact DI Lestrade, you'll have heard of him. He was involved in the serial suicides, he'll vouch for me. I will be involved in this case, with your blessing or without it.”

 

Chandler shook his head, as though he was trying to flick off an irritating hand.

 

“That isn't going to work Mr Hol-”

 

Miles stepped forward, so that he was standing next to Chandler.

 

“No, sir, I do know a Lestrade. He's a good sort, if this Sherlock is telling the truth. He's a decent enough policeman. And he's the sort to let someone like this into his team. I bet Donovan hates him.”

 

Sherlock actually snorted.

 

“She can't stand me. But I can't abide her so that's all sorted then isn't it. Nice to work with you Chandler.”

 

Kent sighed, and Miles cursed under his breath.

 

“Worse than bloody Buchan this is going to be. I can just tell.”

 

Chandler snorted, and rubbed his forehead. He was going to live to regret this, and he hadn't even consciously agreed.

 

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | Chapter 4 | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	6. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 5**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 5  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

The polices' attitude to investigating crime, always, to Sherlock at least, seemed to be gathered towards the successful conclusion of a case. There was never the intervention, intentional or not to understand true motives or the reason for any particular attribute. It felt like working with children, who relied on each other's opinions instead branching out into intuitive knowledge.

 

The only way to be a good detective is the ability to be a good criminal.

 

“Now, whatever you do, don't touch anything gentlemen.”

 

He could feel the fury coming from Chandler and his team. He brushed it off, whether or not the police team was willing to work with him or not was unimportant. They would bring nothing to his investigations other than resources, and even those could be outwardly supplied. Or taken. Either way they could be acquired.

 

There was no purpose in attempting to endear himself, they had already chosen to alienate him, and that suited him perfectly. Whilst he would work with those such as Lestrade, who tolerated his presence and talents, and of course John, there was nothing to be gained to foist himself on those who disregarded him. The downturn in Chandler's anger showed his acceptance of the position, however gathering data was limited by the cold shoulder that he was being offered.

 

If they couldn't understand the basic truths of their own natures then how could they bring to light the truths of others?

 

As pubs in the East end of London went, it was relatively clean, and could, under a kinder eye, be called friendly.

 

Despite of the relative comfort of the pub, it wasn't the sort of area that would take kindly to policemen poking their noses in, the bartender had been imprisoned once before, and was convinced that the system was out to get him. It was evident, by the eyes.

 

Sherlock smiled.

 

“Ah, hello,” it shocked him how easy it was for people to be fooled by a smile, he knew that it didn't reach his eyes, “my sister was in here last night, early in the morning, I'm not sure, about so-high with brown hair, a bit of makeup on, and silly woman, left her purse and phone. You wouldn't happen to have found them have you? She's been awful worried.”

 

He was always quite impressed by the way that he could fake such concern about trivialities.

 

The bar-man looked at him, frowning slightly and making a conscious effort not to reach under the bar. He had them, at least one of them, clearly, but he didn't want to just give it up. Maybe he suspected Sherlock, even so Sherlock could convince him.

 

“Harriet, always was a clumsy girl.”

 

“Was?”

 

Sherlock shrugged.

 

“She didn't make a nuisance of herself did she? If she did I'm so sorry, she's an alcoholic, I do what I can but-”

 

He shrugged. And he could see the conviction fade from the bartender's face.

 

“No, no, your sister was well behaved, at least until the end. She had an argument with her friend, didn't get nasty, but I was about to ask her to leave when she left. Wait, let me get what she left.”

 

The mobile was passed over the bar. You could learn more from someone from their mobile phone than you could living with them for a year. He certainly found that out with John.

 

“It's just the mobile I'm afraid. Her lady friend took the purse, when she left, about an hour later. The mobile was handed in later. She must have missed it.”

 

It was a mine of information, that mobile phone. There were scratches around the socket again, but of a lesser quantity, the phone was new, but John had mentioned the fact that she was trying to drink less. The keys – sticky with red wine- indicated the ferocity of her anger the previous night, enough to make her drink wobble in her hold.

 

Last calls, last messages, all the unimportant trivialities of an ordinary, boring, idiot's life. All the clues that he needed. Clara. In her phone history, one call from Clara and one message too. It was like putting together a children's jigsaw puzzle, you can see the picture before you put it together. It's almost too easy.

 

But then, like the metaphorical spanner in the works, a hole in the water trough, any number of pointless, humourless exhibits of word play, there came a flash of a warrant card over his shoulder, and DI Joseph Chandler. 

 

This case regardless of the wholly irrational reason for taking it, was still so simple, so mundane, needed something to vary it up. Variety is the spice of life, as they say, and although he hates working with the police at least DI Chandler and his broken team is different. Could almost be interesting.

 

He still rolled his eyes and tutted as Chandler undid all of the subtle work and knowledge that he had garnered.

 

“My name is DI Chandler, these are my colleagues DS Miles, DC Mansell and DC Kent. Are you the proprietor of this establishment? We need to ask you some questions about one of your customers last night.”

 

There was always something enjoyable about working against the police, and whilst, granted, they always established the same ends, and Sherlock would, given the morality of the situation, or his moods, hand over the guilty party, in this instance. Well, it would be a race to the finish. Pitting his wits against someone who wasn't Lestrade, not that it was a fair fight. But when was he ever fair?

 

“Yes, that's me, as in, this is my pub yes. Why are you asking officer?”

 

“There was an incident last night, involving one of your customers, ending in a fatality further down Chamber Road. The deceased name was Harriet Watson, could you give us any information?”

 

He could feel the stares of the bartender, but his attention had already turned back to the mobile phone.

 

“Ignore 'im. He's nothing to do with this investigation. Ignore everything he's told you. Now, back to the case.”

 

“'e said that he was that Harriet's brother.”

 

DS Miles was brash, and got straight to the point, he seemed the sort to work with Lestrade. But it didn't concern him that the looks turned icy, the text message to Clara had _where r u?_ and a single, tentative x. A kiss. This case was building itself.

 

“Well he's a liar, and a tasteless one at that. And now, Mr-” “Bates” “Mr Bates, what do you remember about Miss Harriet Watson?”

 

“Well Mr Chandler, I don't remember when she arrived but she was kind of all dressed up, through she would be meeting a bloke or someone, but she sat down with this woman, very pretty, brunette, and she seemed happy”

 

And if Sherlock had muttered “She's obviously a lesbian you imbecile” under his breath, no one paid any attention to him.

 

“They didn't eat, or nothing, but they did have a few drinks each, and I think your lady was a bit worse for wear, at about two. She got into this rotten argument with her mate and I was just about to ask her to leave when she stormed out herself.”

 

“Do go on.”

 

He could tell the information that the barman was giving from the story of the phone, from observation of the uncleaned floor, from seeing the body. But validation was a crucial part of detection.

 

“Well, there was some shouting, I think I heard the lady shout something to her friend, but I just left it, she was outside. There wasn't really any other noise than that until about half hour later, heard sirens. And I looked out the window, but they ain't very clean and I couldn't see nothing. Guessed it'd just been another fight or something. It happens a lot 'round here, you know, a bit of a rough district. And there weren't any policemen asking about, so I just left it. Lady's friend had another couple of drinks and then left, about three in the morning. Sorry I can't help more officer.”

 

How Chandler's little team thought that this would be of help to gather information to the murder, it was obvious that all involved here were nothing more than innocent bystanders, who didn't even have the decency to be witnesses. How was he to solve a case without evidence?

 

“Is there anything else that you can remember sir.”

 

The youngest of the team tacked the word sir to most of his sentences, it wasn't a quirk brought about by education, his other mannerisms were too independent, but it was always interesting to show the power of the work environment. Was the man not a policeman he doubted that he'd show the same deference. Even out of politeness.

 

“Well, right after she left, the one what- Harriet, you know, this bloke just walked out. I only notice it cause he didn't finish is pint. He's a semi-regular, don't know his surname I'm afraid but 'is names James an-”

 

He was itching to be gone, there was nothing more that he could justifiably gather from the pub, The Artful Dodger, and he knew enough that it would be bad practice to commit crime in front of four detectives, he had to be endeared to them first. But there was only one thing that he tangibly needed.

 

“Does the name Clara mean anything to you?”

 

The man started, but turned to him regardless. Although he'd been discredited by DI Chandler, their continued presence gave him just enough authority to insist his question was answered. Not that the barman was thinking of the subliminal politics of it all.

 

“I know I heard it last night, but can't be any more help than that sir.”

 

It wasn't the most helpful of leads, but, if anyone was going to shed further light on Harriet, it would be this Clara. It wasn't as through John was in any fit state to do so. Hardly worth the effort of locating her, but it would be a start.

 

“Don't call him sir, Mister Holmes isn't part of this case, at least without the boss's say so.”

 

But he ignored Miles, he ignored Chandler as well as he turned on his heel out of the pub. He'd had enough of the collective idiocy of humanity for today.

 

~

 

He hadn't taken overtime in the Ripper case, although he'd been working through the night, he'd never considered it. It seemed irrelevant somehow, the only thing that had mattered would be tracing the footsteps of the Ripper, around his own head. He'd taken out overtime this time. It wasn't worth loosing oneself to the case.

 

Overtime was voluntary and the office was empty. Miles had clocked off shortly after they'd finally left the crime scene, gesturing about a parent's evening that he had to go to, how he had to be there for his boy and he's nodded him off. Chandler didn't want to break families apart, that happened all too often with this job.

 

Just considering the Watson family; the whiteboard was set up, brother, ex-wife, father, mother, uncles, aunts, cousins. Just blank names on the investigation board. But it wasn't right to think of them as real people. They were part of the case, just the faceless victims of another century’s crime.

 

Looking up at the investigation board, Chandler winced, Mansell's hand writing was a black scrawl on the board, sentences running around themselves, words scrunched up along the upwards straight of a photograph, titles underlined with unsteady lines. The leads that they had gathered from the barman had been relatively weak, but they were something that they could work on.

 

Sherlock had turned tail and left, and they only realised that he'd walked off with evidence when Chandler was thanking Mr Bates for his time.

 

There was a grainy CCTV recording playing out in the office, which Mansell had obviously left playing as he'd left. The victim- Harriet, was shouting silently at her companion, hands were slammed down on the rickety table and she stormed out. It was peculiar to watch in silent. The tape cut off half-way through the next development, but -as the barman had hold them- she appeared to be followed out. Whilst the argument took place, one of the younger men sitting at the bar had stood up, and only moments after the door swung shut went and pushed it open again. The time stamp had fitted into the tale that they'd been told.

 

It was the only lead they they'd been able to gather, and the likelihood of any large numbers of people in the streets at that hour was rare. They needed all the witnesses that they were able to contact.

 

Kent had left, revving up his scooter in a very un-policeman like fashion, to go and try and track down this 'James'. He'd been in contact, but hadn't returned to the office. Chandler expected that he'd just clocked off.

 

Mansell had jogged one of the photographs when he wrote on the whiteboard. It was grating on his nerves when he looked up from the open casebook in front of him. It hadn't been hard to locate a copy of the case-notes on Frances Coles, she was included in enough of the Ripperology myths to have accessible information.

 

It didn't tell them anything.

 

Buchan's book, a rarity now, was left on the side of a desk -Kent's he thought- as he left the sanctity of his office to straighten said photograph.

 

Despite, or perhaps because of his involvement in the Ripper case, Buchan was still a respected Ripperologist. Although he had been categorised as a nuisance, to the outside world he was the expert helping the police, the Mr Lusk and Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. To the outside world it was he who had the power in the case. It may have been the failings of Chandler who had lost the Ripper from the grip of history, but it was everyday-ordinary man Edward Buchan who had given them the clues. This, didn't stop those who thought that Buchan was behind it, but there will always be conspiracy theories.

 

But despite of this he hadn't republished his book. He would speak on the topic, and give accounts of the comparisons and differences, the book that had started it all hadn't been republished. Buchan had said that it wasn't appropriate after what it was used for, the same with the website. Which made the casually given away copy, complete with Chandler's annotations a vital part of the investigation. Or it would have been.

 

Frances Coles was not part of the Canonical Five, and she was almost two years after the murder of Mary Jane Kelly. She had been discounted after half a page full of discussion and the medial report by Dr. Phillips. Buchan respected the dead, but he in his ' _professional opinion as an esteemed Ripperologist_ ' did not regard Miss Coles as a victim of the Jack the Ripper of urban myth, and therefore ' _she should be discounted from further investigation, and be left to rest in peace._ '

 

Chandler was unpeeling the bluetacted image from the whiteboard carefully, lining it up in his mind with the other photographs, trying to square it against the spidercrawl of Mansell's writing, (and he's reprimanded _Miles_ for not writing legibly) when the door was pushed open.

 

“I didn't know that you'd still be here, sir.”

 

Chandler hesitated a moment, before placing the picture into the required spot. Kent knew that he would be here before he'd even set foot into the office, his car was parked in the staff carpark, where he would be sure that Kent's Vespa was resting against the wall. There was no need to take overtime on this case, he could have gone home. Kent hated to be in the station alone at night, after the situation with the uniforms. Yet he'd returned to the station. To see him, as much was evident, therefore he could wait the required time for Chandler to straighten the investigation board.

 

“Didn't know that you still had this book sir, is it any help?”

 

He could hear Kent flicking through the copy of _Jack the Ripper_ , resisting the urge to tell him not to bend the corner of the pages.

 

“I thought it would be useful, make sure to cover every possible leads, keep the page will you Kent?”

 

When Chandler turned to finally face Kent, having settled himself with the organisation of the murder board he saw that Kent's thumb was jammed into the spine, holding the page before he'd asked.

 

“There isn't very much information on her is there?”

 

Chandler shook his head.

 

“No. No there isn't. Frances Coles is a mystery, one that none appear to notice. It's like she's just a body, unimportant, just because she wasn't 'interesting'. ”

 

“Hmm. Maybe we can rectify that sir?”

 

Kent was leaning against his desk, one leg kicked out in front. There was always something of the student that he'd been in way that he would sit on the desks, cross legged and keen.

 

Chandler stepped forward, until Kent's foot was brushing against his leg. He'd have flinched from such simple touch before, but now there was something good about being able to reach out and touch - _be touched_. A pat, however hesitatingly performed on Miles' shoulder, Mansell's shoulder joshing against his when walking, Kent's hand on his.

 

He lent forward and placed the flat of his palm on Kent's thigh.

 

Kent's hand covered his, book disregarded.

 

He couldn't help his eye line dropped to the bent spine of the book on the table, but the light squeeze of Kent's hand over his turned his attention back to the young man on the desk.

 

“I've missed you.”

 

He looked embarrassed by this declaration, and looked down at their entwined fingers, rather than catching Chandler's eye in the tender light.

 

“We work together Kent.”

 

Kent nodded, but his hand tightened over Chandler's.

 

“I know that, but you understand what I mean, it's different here.”

 

Kent coughed and tightened his fingers fractionally.

 

“I tracked down that James that the bartender, Bates was talking about, sir. One James Herbert. He says that he didn't see the murder -that he didn't know of it until I'd told him- but there was a man who rushed passed him this morning, about twenty minutes after he left The Artful Dodger, coming from the direction of the murder scene.”

 

Chandler untangled their fingers and, after looking towards Kent for permission, dipped into the pocket of his coat, which was pooling around where he was perched on the edge of the desk.

 

His handwriting was clear enough, a cobweb of black ink across the page -“Mum always said I've got the handwriting for a doctor sir.” “Compared to Mansell you're positively a calligraphist”- with occasional doodles, scrawled stars and the like dotted about the page.

 

 _James Herbert, 23-7, male, 5'8, Caucasian._

 _Exited the pub just after 2AM. Heard no disturbance. Short while later (twenty mins?) saw figure rush past him.. The street (Royal Mint?) was dark, with streetlights not working. Claims to be able to identify man again._

 _Identification: “Quite distinctive looking, had one of those fringes swept back over his forehead. and he was all dressed up, pretty smart. I think his hair was blond, it looked lighter than his suit. That was weird though, I think he was carrying something, like a coat rolled up, 'cause I noticed he was wearing a pink shirt -metrosexual type- and no jacket. Shorter than me, 5'5 to 5'7? He had his head down as he went passed. He weren't running, but it weren't slow. He just carried on down Royal Mint. I mean, it's not much, but you don't tend to remember people at two in the morning after a bit to drink. Sorry I can't be more help.”_

 

The man's contact details were scribbled into the margin of his notepad, three telephone numbers. Chandler guessed at work, home and mobile. It wasn't logical for there to be a flash of jealously in him when he read the mobile number, only a twinge.

 

“I couldn't get hold of any CCTV, but I was able to..”

 

He raised his eyes to meet Kent's and Kent trailed off.

 

“It's a detailed lead Kent, and it's the best that we've got. There will be CCTV available, that we shall investigate tomorrow.”

 

Kent nodded, barely concealing a yawn in the tilt of his head. Chandler smiled as Kent pushed himself up from the desk he was leaning on, pulling his shoulders back in an imitation of a stretch.

 

“There's nothing more that we can do here tonight Kent, you did well.”

 

Kent smiled, and reached down to collect his tan jacket, shrugging it onto his shoulders easily, Chandler turned to gather his coat from the office, to replace the book, to lock up, to turn the light out – _it shouldn't have been as hard as it was, it was a simple every day occurrence, but just once more to make sure,_ when he heard a faint click and there was Kent, illuminated only by the corridor and the looping CCTV, holding out his coat.

 

It's the small things.

 

There was a fleeting brush of lips and stubble against his cheek, so fleeting that it could have been passed off as Kent's curls, and then Kent turned to leave.

 

The static hiss of the television set playing the last moments of Harriet Watson's life was oddly satisfying.

 

Kent was at the door when Chandler reached forward, resting his hand against the younger man's shoulder, adding a comforting pressure.

 

He hesitated only a moment before dropping his hand down to entwine their fingers again.

 

~

 

It was all so ordinary. _Nothing ever happens to me._ His bed, his room, the flat, the silence that permeated the Thursday morning. ( _Never could get the hang of Thursdays_ ) It was strange, that he had that fraction of a second in which he didn't realise why he felt caught in a sea of grief. For the first moments of the day there was simply a wave of sadness, and no understandable reason.

 

And then he remembered.

 

The grief process isn't a complicated one, and John had become used to the concept of grief when he'd seen men die with their own blood in their mouths. Desperately clinging to anyone, to anything.

 

As a medic that was normally him.

 

And the desperate desire to be with those you loved when you knew that your time was up meant that John knew too many secrets of dead men.

 

He wondered how Harry had felt. If she'd cried out. Cried out when she was murdered.

 

Harry was _dead_.

 

If either of them was set to die young, it was always expected it to be him. They both had, Harry had screamed them at him when he gave his reasons for joining up, _you stupid fuck, you're going to get yourself blown up out there!_ even though Harry's drinking looked set to even up the score. She'd been trying to stop.

 

Harry hadn't killed herself. John hadn't killed himself. It had been a situation outside of both of their controls. In some, small way, that he hates himself for acknowledging, he would have _understood_ had Harry been killed because of him. It would have made sense then. Had Harry been murdered because she was the sister of Sherlock Holmes' friend, if she'd been ransomed, or threatened unless John fulfilled certain uses. It would have made him accountable. He'd always been accountable for Harry. But not in this.

 

Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences, but he didn't know what Sherlock thought of this case. He didn't want to know. The personal perspective. It was why as a doctor you shouldn't treat your family members, he didn't have that problem any more.

 

The laugh that he began soon became a choked off sob.

 

He'd been taken to see her body, without knowing that it was her. As far as he'd known she was safe, probably hungover, but alive. At least in Afghanistan you always knew that you could find one of your friends dead the next day. You didn't expect to go into work and find your sister laid out on the mortuary gurney.

 

And Sherlock had just carried on.

 

 _You're going to drink yourself to death Harry, and I don't want to be the one to sign the death certificate._

 

When he'd first got back it had been a delight to have a proper shower. It was never the same out there – water too warm, too little time, and it had taken so much time for him to feel as though he _could_ shower after the incident. It wasn't a chore now, but it was something so ordinary _nothing ever happens to me_ that he didn't even notice it.

 

It felt strange that he could still do such normal things as wash and dress, it didn't seem like something that he should be doing. But, of course, live always goes on. It had gone on after he'd had his first patient die at his hands, it had gone on when his shoulder had been shattered, it had gone on after Moriarty, it would go on after this.

 

But that didn't mean that John felt like it should.

 

 _Nothing ever happens to me_. It had been a lie from the moment he'd said it, what with Sherlock and the life that he dragged him in to. He never got a chance to stop, to do that nothing. He hadn't visited Harry in months, and she only lived on the other side of the city. His boring average life, was far too filled with danger, with excitement.

 

He couldn't go into work. He just couldn't go and sit in the surgery and look down the throats of sick children, or take the temperature of the mother-to-be. He just couldn't. They'd understand if he explained, Sarah would take it in her stride and come and care for him. But he didn't want to put it into words.

 

He thumbed the buttons on the phone idly.

 

The flat had two phones, technically, but the flat had a lot more things in theory than it did in practice because of Sherlock. He'd eventually found it in the bread bin, the bread bin of all places.

 

By the time he'd found the phone the speech that he could give to Sarah – he hoped that it would be Sarah he had to talk to, he wasn't sure he could tell anyone else.

 

 _“Erm, Sarah”_

 _“John? John where are you? It's still the flu season you know.”_

 _“Sorry, the thing is, well-”_

 _“Is it that Sherlock again? Is he stealing you off, because this is your job.”_

 _“No. No it's not Sherlock. It's-”_

 _“John? John?”_

 _“It's Harry.”_

 _“Who?”_

 _“Harriet, my- sister, she's-”_

 _“John? What's happened?”_

 _“She's dead. She's been murdered.”_

 _“Oh my, that's awful. How did it happen? When did you find out?”_

 _“It was a case of Sherlock's... I didn't know until I was given the chance to see the body.”_

 _“Oh John. You mustn't come in. Take as much leave as you need. Do you want me to come over this evening? I'll come over as soon as I can.”_

 _“No. I think I need to be alone right now.”_

 _“Alone? Isn't Sherlock with you?”_

 _“With me? He's investigating.”_

 

It couldn't go any worse in reality, than in his mind. He pressed the call button.

 

The dial tone was harsh in his ears.

 

“John?”

 

It was Sarah, she didn't sound angry, she didn't even sound disappointed.

 

“Sherlock already called, said there'd been a bereavement. You're not expected to come in.”

 

She knew. Sherlock had told her. Sherlock.

 

He mumbled thanks into her condolences and pressed the end call button.

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | Chapter 5 | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	7. A Town Called Original Sin - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**Fic: A Town Called Original Sin- Interlude**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Interlude  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty". The interlude is used to explain the background to the Chandler/Kent relationship of ATCOS, it therefore doesn't fit into the narrative. It was supposed to be part of chapter 5, but that grew too long. Therefore, the style of it is a little... quirky.  
I've always promised myself that I'd get this posted before my birthday, and I have with just over a week to go. And this is it, the end, my friends. After five long months my baby is finished. She's over 25,000 words long, has used up many, many man hours, and involved blood, sweat and a few tears. I hope you've enjoyed the journey. I know that I have. //end of sappy speech.  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

It developed so slowly, whatever _this_ was, it had taken months though the new Ripper, though the Krays and all the cases too small to gather press attention. It was such a natural progression from companionship to friendship to something more, it was ridiculous that a group of detective's couldn't tell the change. But, it seemed that they couldn't.

 

They'd decided to keep it quiet.

 

What the team didn't know couldn't hurt them, their private lives were not anyone's concern but their own.

 

Chandler knew that that wouldn't wash with Miles, if he was honest with himself it wouldn't wash with any of them. This was something too big to be hidden from the team as it _wasn't_ just their privates lives. This involved them all.

 

But they still didn't tell.

 

Kent wanted it to be theirs, and Chandler wanted Kent to be his.

 

Their working relationship didn't suffer, so much, it just took on rather different connotations.

 

It was hard for Chandler not to smile unabashed at Kent when he could, _just_ because he could.

 

Miles might have said that his boys wouldn't have had issue with it -and he'd still outright denied it, even them- but there was a difference between sexuality and taking up with the youngest member of the team.

 

Miles was protective of his team.

 

He was even protective of Chandler, in his own way.

 

But, sexually harassment, taking advantage, all possible accusations. They could all be held as well.

 

So they kept it quiet.

 

It wasn't hard for them to keep it quiet though, it was only looking at it fro the inside that Chandler noted how Kent had acted around him, how he had always acted. He would have felt guilty for the unnecessary hero-worship, except Kent had frowned through his admonishments and said simply that he was worth it.

 

It was a far cry from the man he had been.

 

They went on dates sometimes. After work and during lunch times.

 

Kent moved into his flat a few months after they started being _more_. It was an awkward at first, trying to balance work and this relationship. Because he just couldn't put one above the other, they were so vitally separate, yet joined and caused by the other.

 

They certainly acted, or they tried to at least, like there was nothing between them. It was hard, but they had their nights. Sometimes Kent would stay for days on end.

 

One day Chandler took a breath and asked Emerson to move in with him.

 

Kent had smiled.

 

The flat felt warmer after that.

 

Chandler continually felt guilty, when he saw the way that Kent looked at him, but Kent only said he was reflecting the happiness in his own eyes.

 

That he deserved it.

 

Chandler had the suspicion that they knew.

 

That sometimes, after his eyes lingered too long on Kent, he saw something something in Miles' smile.

 

He didn't know if it was a threat, admonishment or acceptance.

 

He didn't ask.

 

Only turning back to his desk, and back to work.

  


[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | (Interlude) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)  


  



	8. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 6**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 6  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

They'd obviously taken up the CCTV from The Artful Dodger yesterday, he'd spotted the cameras and Chandler must have done as well. As imbecilic as all of the police were, there was no way that Anderson would allow someone that incompetent into a relatively high position in the police. And Chandler was supposed to rise up through the ranks, until the incident had taken place.

 

Either way, regardless of the intelligence of DI Chandler, he still wanted that CCTV. It wasn't strictly necessary, he was sure that he'd be able to make more leads than the rag-tag team without it, but other than the phone he didn't have anything tangible, and without John helping him to focus.

 

“If you've not been able to gather the information that you require from the available CCTV, which I doubt, then you'll have very little use for it. I gather even the Met are able to take copies. Just let me have one of them.”

 

Miles rolled his eyes at him.

 

“For the last time Mister Holmes, you are not part of our inquiry and I'm not at liberty to give you anything. Even if I wanted to.”

 

It was a lie, of course, the sergeant could do anything. At least within the team and it was unlikely that even Chandler would host too many objections. But the animosity was already there.

 

But regardless, he had a lead that the police didn't, the mobile was sitting in his jacket pocket. He collected mobile phones from cases, there were scores of them in drawers dashed all around the flat, scattered among the things he didn't think deserved giving back. After all, he was neither judge nor jury and as capable to failing to return a diamond to its owner as any man.

 

He tusked and turned away from Whitechapel police station, knowing, expecting and being ready for the footsteps that followed him. Follow him if they could, he was going to get a taxi to the flat of one Clara Watson.

 

She wasn't the last person to see Harriet alive, but she was certainly a step in the right direction, and with the police team holding him back purposefully, perhaps she could be used for more than confirmation of drinks and text messages.

 

It hadn't been hard to locate an address (and a home phone number, and a birth certificate, and a gas bill, and a national insurance number) it wasn't as if people took any accordance to their surroundings or their safety. That much was obvious, or there wouldn't be so many dead.

 

It may have been a harsh view, but if people allowed themselves to be murdered, there would always be ways to trace them. It was universally acknowledged that the criminal was more intelligent than the victim.

 

The taxi fare wasn't quite extortionate, but Sherlock was sure that John –had he been willing to accompany him– would have complained about the forty eight, ninety five that it took to deliver him to Clara's door.

 

He'd expected her to have a hyphenated surname, but he supposed that Harriet Watson had the same stubbornness that John had.

 

The house itself was acceptable, small and just in the suburbs on London. A classier area than Harriet herself lived in. It was a house, two bedrooms, obviously intended to be shared, it was bought together, there was too little personality to the building for it to have been a personal choice. It was meant to be a family home. From the age of the building and the wear on the door, where the continual knocking on the wood had begun to, ever so slightly wore down the wood, the house had been Clara's for at least two years, perhaps more.

 

Bought before the split then.

 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Clara, when she opened the door. She was in all respected quite ordinary, dark hair- not a shocking black, just, dark (she'd dyed it as a teenager, but reverted it back to her natural colour soon after), 5'6- short but not unseemly. She was prettier, (by the conventional representations of pretty certainly) than Harriet, but it wasn't hard to be prettier than a dead woman Sherlock suppose.

 

“Clara Watson?”

 

She nodded, it wasn't technically a question, more of a confirmation of what Sherlock knew he already knew. But the confirmation was given regardless.

 

“Yes, and you are?”

 

Sherlock stepped forward, looking around behind Clara's shoulder into the hallway. It was tidy, although not to the extent that it looked like a show home. There were shoes in the corridor, obviously having been kicked off, and letters piled on the side counter. It was in every extreme a stereotypical home.

 

He heard the car draw up behind him as he turned his attention back to Clara. He could admit to being mildly impressed as to the fact the police had been able to trace him, granted the taxi he had taken hadn't be fast, but he hadn't noticed that he was being tracked. He'd suspected that he would be, but he'd not noticed it.

 

“My name is unimportant, Harriet's dead, and I want to ask you a few questions.”

 

The choked sob was cliché, and yet completely expected. The grieving always worked in the same way. Disbelief, hands raised to mouth, tears in the eyes, and then the questions.

 

It was almost a relief when DC Mansell stepped past him, and reached a hand out to the now crying Clara.

 

“Are you Miss Clara Watson?” “.Ms, it should be Ms.” “Yes Ms, are you-”

 

Sherlock hated emotional witnesses. They were always swayed by their feelings, rather than by the facts. The woman's death had been established.

 

“Is what he says true? Is Harry really-?”

 

“Yes. I'm so sorry Ms.”

 

The hug looked awkward, but not out of any discomfort on Mansell's part, more, confusion as to the head crying into the crook of his neck and the hands clinging to his shoulders.

 

“There, there Ms.”

 

She composed herself relatively well, Sherlock considered, however distasteful tears were, she sobered up after a few uncomfortable minutes.

 

“Are- I'm sorry, it was just the shock, are you the police?”

 

Mansell nodded, taking out his wallet with his ID. Sherlock simply shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers thumbing the mobile phone. He couldn't get any more information out of it. It was simply part of the flotsam and jetsam of murder.

 

“Oh god. I've still got her purse. I was going to drop it round this afternoon. I can't believe she's dead. What happened?”

 

Mansell scowled at Sherlock, which was only to be expected, taking away from the meagre duties of a detective constable.

 

“Do you mind if we step inside?”

 

It was obvious that he wanted to distance Sherlock from the investigation, he didn't even need to phrase the words, his body language spoke for itself. But something like that wasn't enough to dissuade him, and he stepped forward when the door was proffered for Mansell.

 

DC Kent was also on the scene, tailing Sherlock lacking all subtlety altogether. But he supposed that it wasn't the purpose of such an operation. More to let him know that they were there. It was a pointless exercise, but they weren't physically stopping him from attending. It wasn't like they could.

 

“I don't understand you're involved in this case, why are you getting involved in this? What do you care for it?”

 

Sherlock turned on his heel and looked down at the younger DC.

 

“I was indisposed at the time of the Second Ripper. I'm a detective, how did you think that made me feel? I could of, and I should have been able to solve that case. And unlike you, I know that it is always better to catch the killer, than to never know.”

 

There was a beat whilst Kent appeared to process the information, the little of it that there was, this was information that he felt no need to air in public.

 

“Our Skip could have died.”

 

“That's as may be.”

 

Sherlock pushed open the door, that had been nudged too from the inside, obvious Mansell, as it was unlikely that Clara would have the thought to do so. Especially concerning the fact that neither Mansell or Kent had outwardly eliminated Sherlock from the site, nor expressed anything that could result in his presence being questioned. It was remarkably lenient.

 

“What time did you leave The Artful Dodger last night Clara?”

 

She was perched on the edge of her sofa, a tissue pressed to her cheek. She didn't understand the question, the relevance of it, and the question was in her eye. Sherlock ignored it, repeating again want he wanted.

 

“About an hour after Harry- Harry left. About three?”

 

That gave him the timestamp that he needed, he had his people on the streets. Clara herself was nothing other than a means to an end. She could hardly be implicated in the crime. No one could fake astonishment and shock like that, she was no Moriarty.

 

“Will you stop harassing our victim? You shouldn't even be on the scene.”

 

Clara gave a little whimper at the word victim, Sherlock doubted that she was listening to anything in context. Had there not been the ever present presence of Mansell and Kent he would see what other words were regarded as trigger words.

 

“Don't you care?”

 

Sherlock snorted, it may have been undignified but the impression that he gave to people wasn't one of a person who cared.

 

“Care? Care? I don't- it's interesting. And John. Well. Can I have that CCTV yet?”

 

The look that Mansell gave him was answer enough.

 

It was worth a try.

 

~

 

The office was a bustle of activity, even though it was quieter now considering that the majority of the uniforms and other officers had taken the time out for lunch. However there were still the buzzing of the phones and the occasional folder being flicked through and dropped onto desks.

 

It was cruel to say, even more to think, but Chandler was grateful that it was only the one murder. It would be easier to trace the murder through the normal routes -such as those in the Murder Investigation Manual he thought, shaking his head- rather than trying to find a serial killer. Again. It wasn't a task that he wanted to repeat, not with the same cloud of failure hanging over his head. It was almost a surprise that Anderson hadn't returned from Switzerland to take the commission out of his hands personally.

 

The press would have a field day if they knew the ins and outs of this case. Despite his handling of the Kray case he was still haunted by the press accounts of the man who failed to catch Jack the Ripper, 'the crime he had 120 years to prepare for'. If the press caught wind of the possible links to the second Ripper that this crime was throwing up, even so much as a hint of them then his career was finished. The little integrity that he had would be stripped away in the eyes of the public. This case needed to be solved, they needed, he needed a positive result as much for his career as for justice. He wouldn't let himself be Abberline. He had to be his own person, and not be haunted by the past. It seemed in this job it was always the past trying to catch up with him. He couldn't outrun history.

 

“Tea sir?”

 

Kent placed the cup down on his desk carefully, the tea lapping at the rim of the mug, but not spilling over onto the papers on his desk. He hadn't been to lunch, he couldn't afford to rest, not yet and he didn't know about the rest of the team. Kent and Mansell had only come in half an hour ago from tailing Sherlock Holmes, and the witness-come-suspect that he'd found.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

If there was every such a thing as a spanner in the works of the police force, it was that man. He was unable to be dissuaded, and his attitude, his lack of legitimacy.

 

“Sir?”

 

Kent was still standing awkwardly in front of his desk, looking faintly concerned.

 

“Sorry, thank you.”

 

He looked from Kent to the glass window dividing him and the team, there was a cardboard cup on Kent's own desk, and Mansell was leaving one on Miles'. They hadn't been asked, Chandler realised, they'd done it because they wanted too. He could still remember the team when he'd been laughed at for trying to instigate some order. Now they were buying him drinks.

 

Kent hesitated a moment, before dropping into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Chandler nodded briefly and Kent appeared to visibly relax.

 

“Clara couldn't tell us anything that the CCTV didn't tell us sir.”

 

Chandler nodded again, this time solemnly.

 

“Yes, that was only to be expected wasn't it?”

 

There was a quick rat-a-tat on his door, before it was pulled open by Miles. Kent look between Chandler and his sergeant and made a move to stand up, but Miles waved his hand at him.

 

“You're alright lad.”

 

Kent sunk back into his seat, and watched Miles step towards Chandler's desk.

 

“Don't beat yourself up about this sir. It's just another case. We've done plenty of 'em. I know that it'll be making you think of before, Christ knows it's making me think of the Ripper, but we're not trying to catch him, sir. He drowned. We're trying to catch whoever it is that thinks is clever to try and do it again.”

 

Chandler looked towards Miles apprehensively, forehead creased out of disbelief and stress.

 

“How can you say that Miles? We've got one lead. One lead. A short man walking past a man on the street. Our only lead is that there was a man who looked harried. What sort of a description is that? Harried?”

 

The cup wasn't straight on his desk.

 

The only lead that they had managed to gather had been so inconsequential.

 

Miles was leaning forward on the desk, nudging papers out of the way with his fingers.

 

The streets were quiet in the early mornings, and there weren't any witnesses to the crime.

 

His door had been pushed too and not closed.

 

They had nothing to go on.

 

He was reaching out to line up pens on the desk, when he looked up and caught the worried eye of Kent.

 

Miles broke the silence.

 

“Look sir, you've been in here all day. It's not gonna help if you just keep thinking over the same things over and over again. You know how you get. Go and get some lunch Joe.”

 

Kent nodded, and so Chandler sighing, folded the cover back over of the file he was reading and pushed his chair backwards.

 

“I don't actually need a nanny Miles.”

 

It was little more than a mutter, but Chandler knew that Miles heard it, as did Kent who tried and failed to hide his smile in time.

 

“I know sir, but, I was always destined for a job in social services.”

 

~

 

The flat was quiet without Sherlock.

 

He'd not often been in the flat without Sherlock, not at this time of day. John wasn't normally even in the flat at this time of day. He'd either be out with Sherlock investigating some kind of crime, or at the surgery, or out with Sarah, or doing something. He couldn't remember the last time that he just sat. Sat and thought.

 

In the evening his thoughts would turn maudlin, to the war, to the problems with the cases, to how Sherlock could be injured, how Sarah could break up with him.

 

They didn't turn to Harry. He'd become resigned to Harry's drinking, only exasperated because of his joining the army, Harry just _was_.

 

She wasn't any more.

 

He couldn't quite comprehend it. He'd seen her body, he _knew_ that she was dead, murdered. Just as he knew that Sherlock was probably- who knew with Sherlock?- investigating it. But that didn't make it real.

 

He shouldn't just sit in the flat, Harry wouldn't have -John didn't know what Harry would have wanted, they'd been close but they drifted apart, they'd never talked about death like that, not her death, only his- wanted that. She'd told him what she'd have done if he died. It was after he'd returned, before he met Sherlock and John hadn't been ready for it at all. It was strange, he'd been prepared to die, it was part of being a soldier, but he hadn't been prepared for that.

 

Maybe it would have been easier if he knew what Harry would have done if the situations were reversed. Except, they wouldn't have been. John could have been killed by Moriarty, blown to pieces. He could have been shot in the heart. Harry wouldn't have known. Harry knew what he did with Sherlock, to an extent, but she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't have understood it if he had _died_.

 

He didn't understand her death. He'd been shot in Afghanistan, that made sense. Harry had been slowly poisoning herself with drink, that -horrific as it was- made sense. But there was nothing in her death that made sense. It just wasn't rational.

 

He was thinking like Sherlock, and that in itself didn't make sense, he should have been raging, crying, grieving properly rather than thinking of any logistics and rationales.

 

His mobile still had Harry's number programmed into it, and she had a personalised answer-phone message. It used to annoy him, it was long and pointless and oh so very Harry.

 

He wasn't even thinking consciously when he entered in the speed-dial and heard the dial tone.

 

He was snapped out of his reverie by-

 

“John?”

 

It wasn't Harry. He knew it wasn't Harry. He'd definitely dialled Harry's number.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

He heard Sherlock tut at him, the noise of the London traffic filtering though the phone line.

 

“That much would be obvious John. Do catch up.”

 

Sherlock was using Harry's phone. He had Harry's phone.

 

“W-why do you? Sherlock you can't just take what doesn't belong to you. This is Harry's-” “-she won't be using it-” “Sherlock!”

 

He was crying now, thick undignified tears.

 

He was grieving. He was mourning.

 

Christ, his sister had been killed.

 

“Ring Clara.”

 

He hadn't even thought of Clara, of kind sweet Clara. He didn't even know if she'd been told. She had loved Harry. There weren't many people left that Harry had loved and was loved by in return.

 

“What? She knows? How could you?”

 

Sherlock cut him off.

 

“Ring her. John you work by helping people, you're refusing to help yourself by wallowing in your own self-pity, so ring Clara. Try and help her, since you aren't helping me, and you're certainly not helping yourself right now.”

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | Chapter 6 | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	9. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 7**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 7   
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

 

The attentiveness of the Metropolitan police left much to be desired, he supposed that it would have been different had DI Chandler and his little team not left the office, but regardless, the fact that he could just walk in, take up the CCTV and leave again was, inadequate. The service shouldn't be so easily persuaded. There was little wonder that they'd been so confused by a case that they'd had 120 years to prepare for.

 

There had been copycat killers before, and the unsolvable crimes were always the most popular. It had been a question of when rather than _if_ the crimes of the Autumn of Terror would be repeated. It should have been something that the police were prepared for.

 

There were two CCTV tapes, one _int. pub_ had clearly been opened and watched, whilst the second _ext. pub_ had been newly delivered. He almost considered not taking the _int. pub_ tape, as the information that it contained hadn't been considered relevant to the case, and it was unlikely that poor graded CCTV equipment would add to his knowledge of the argument between Harriet and Clara. But it could still prove itself useful. A bargaining chip against Chandler.

 

The dusty VHS player that Sherlock knew he had insisted Mrs Hudson keep for a reason, hooked up to the television with a static buzz. It didn't matter about the quality of the electrical joint, as long as he was able to press play. There was no water near bear electrical wires, at least, not around the television, John had put his foot down on the matter.

 

John. He supposed that John had heard him enter, but the fact that he'd not made any effort to greet him implied that he wanted to be let alone. Sherlock shrugged as he shoved the tape in roughly. After all this wasn't a case that needed two men anyway. He worked perfectly well on his own. It wasn't as if John would add anything to the investigation.

 

The time-stamp of the black-and-white static image was too late to see Harry enter the pub -she could have been followed, someone could have been watching her, and there was no way to establish this- and there was nothing more that Harriet herself could contribute to the investigation. A man exited the pub shortly after her, but turned the wrong way, he didn't have the mannerisms of a killer, and there was no subconscious check of the CCTV, or noticeable avoidance of it. When bystanders got involved, it always made it complicated, but also, interesting.

 

After nine-minutes of _fascinating_ emptiness there was movement on the CCTV footage. A man, -five foot five, Sherlock estimated, from the length of the man's stride- carrying a coat rolled up. His hands were hidden within it. There were many reasons why a man might want to cover his hands, but a man with the appearance of a businessman -wearing a cheap suit, obviously not worn often, not a uniform or a mandatory requirement of wherever he worked, a facade-, walking from the direction of a murder scene? And he looked to the CCTV camera, just momentarily.

 

He was sure that he had men on the streets in the docks area.

 

There wasn't anything else that the CCTV could reveal, nothing that would add to this description. It was only an hour of CCTV and he couldn't bear anymore of the thrilling scenes of the exterior of the Artful Dodger. He didn't need another police team attempting to raid 221B, the tapes would be returned. Eventually.

 

But first he needed to make his way back to Whitechapel; the homeless network would yet again come in useful.

 

The Captain was an old officer of the Merchant Navy, who'd fallen on hard times (hadn't they all?) and found himself supported by the bottle and the steady roof of a tube station. He'd taken the head of the East End's homeless network for the handful of notes that Sherlock would pass to him. He sat in the alcove entrance to Aldgate East, and looked up when Sherlock stepped in-front of him. Sherlock hesitated a moment, before shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

“Captain, where any of your men in Whitechapel night before last? I need a man tracing. 5'5, wearing a cheap suit. Rolled up coat, shifty. Moving from the Chamber Street area, down Royal Mint Street. I'll pay well for the information.”

           

The Captain pulled himself to his feet and nodded. A man of few words the Captain. It was the easiest way, Sherlock found. Men who would provide him with what he needed without the need for social interactions. They were the dregs of society, and thus, were invisible to the world, his eyes and ears on the streets.

 

“Send the boy, Wiggins, to 221B with the information. This should be enough for his taxi fare, and any other expenses needed in _remembering_ whatever is needed. There will be more if the man can be found. _”_

 

The Captain nodded again, pocketing the fifty pound note, it was the least that Sherlock could do. If there was information he wanted then he ought to pay well, it was the easiest way to ensure satisfactory results. They knew better than to create the information that Sherlock wanted. He always knew when they lied.

 

It was relatively warm for February, Sherlock decided, as he stood on the front step of 221B. It certainly couldn't be considered the beginning of spring, by no means, but as an average of seasonal weather it was adequate. Wiggins was an excellent thief, and there was little point in tempting him with the articles or nick-knacks lying about the flat. John's laptop had been left on the sofa. He doubted that John would appreciate having his laptop stolen on top of everything.

 

“Mister 'olmes?”

 

The boy was little more than a street urchin, young, turned fifteen a few months ago. There was no point in trying to get the boy off the streets, he was able at what he did and he enjoyed it. The homeless network worked at a league for him, it kept him off drugs and made sure that he had money for his food and someone to watch his back. He made good eyes on the street, he was someone who Sherlock considered, when he was older, passing him up into society, nothing high-brow, but Wiggins ought to have a future. A builder perhaps, or a taxi driver, the people who no-one sees.

 

“Thank you Wiggins.”

 

It was so reliable, his eyes and ears on the streets, and the rat-eared papers that Wiggins shoved into his hands was all that he needed. From the weight of the bundle there were a fair number of photographs -they'd clearly not been able to find the exact man that he was after, London was a thriving metropolis and this had to be taken into consideration- and what he assumed would be addresses, perhaps phone numbers as well.

 

“Now, Wiggins, can you take these” -he proffered the two tapes to the boy, who looked at them suspiciously for a moment, before taking them- “to the Whitechapel police station, pass them on and say that they're part of DI Chandler's investigation. Tell them that I needed borrow them, and tell them that I'm off the case. You got that? And payment, for everyone.”

 

Wiggins nodded, took the wad of notes, and turned on his heel as Sherlock looked through the papers that he'd been given. The man would be in there, somewhere, Sherlock was nothing if not meticulous when it came to his senses.

 

The CCTV had been grainy, but there as more than enough data for him to positively identify one of the photographs. It was all the identification that he needed, the appearance was striking in its similarities, the Victorian art of reading crime on the face may be baseless, but there was something to be said for appearance. There was a phone-number on the back of the photograph. He knew how to rely on.

 

There was always the possibility that the murderer wouldn't reply to the text message or that he'd flee but it was unlikely. Very few people with the gall to copy-cat would be able to resist the thrill of someone knowing what he was doing. The thrill of the chase was always worth the risk of capture. And playing the uncatchable gave a sense of immortality.

 

He'd set the appointed time for a two hours time Enough time for any appointments to be broken. And appropriately, dusk.

 

~

 

“What the cock was he thinking of? That was police property. He can't just swan about helping himself.”

 

“Look, this isn't helping gentlemen, we've got to do the best that we can. We have an investigation to lead ourselves. We can't let ourselves be distracted by Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Miles still looked angry, but sat back at his desk, Chandler sighed and turned back the investigational board. The CCTV that Sherlock had returned -“sent one of his bloody lackeys to give it back”- was playing, two silent reels of film, showing the last moments of Harriet Watson. Chandler paused the external video when the third figure appeared on the screen. The empty streets might make locating witnesses a complicated business, but the limited numbers highlighted exactly who had been present.

 

“We've already established, from the Herbert testimony about our one suspected suspect. And Mansell's traced him through the database.”

 

And they had, it had been a remarkable step-forward on their investigation. From the apparent stalemate that had occurred after the newly delivered CCTV had gone 'missing' -although now they knew Sherlock's light fingers had _borrowed_ them- they'd been able to make a breakthrough.

 

Kent had taken to the streets, armed with his notebook and the Herbert testimony. That area of Whitechapel tended to keep itself to itself, especially in terms of the police and appeals for witnesses hadn't come forward. Not that, it was suspected there had been any actual witnesses to the event. Royal Mint Street was mostly commercial, however it had a few businesses and shops, and it was the only lead they could gather. So Kent had searched.

 

It had taken him a few hours to cover the entire street, but he'd eventually found one of the shops which had externally facing CCTV. 'Major Cod's Chippy' was one of the 24 hour situations and not only did they have CCTV, but they also had a possible identification.

 

 _Mohammed Patel , 34, male, 5'7, Asian._

 _Working at the Major Cod Chippy, night shift. Midnight until four AM. Recognised suspect as a customer at 2:45 in the morning._

 _Identification: “Looked a bit roughed up, blond hair and about 5'7? He was in a suit, but no jacket. Holding a coat, but didn't have a jacket. Ordered chips to go. Paid with cash. A bit shifty, perhaps. Didn't say much.”_

 

The CCTV had confirmed Mr Patel's identification. Whether it was a ploy, trick or forgetfulness the suspect had, only momentarily, looked towards the CCTV. It was enough to allow them to look though the database to try and find him on their files.

 

Miles had a nose for spotting his suspects. He knew the area and its people well. Those of a criminal disposition at any rate, and when Mansell made the match between handout and database Miles had a name and a criminal record.

 

Chandler pointed at the image of the man, frozen on the pass from the exterior CCTV of The Artful Dodger.

 

“Our suspect goes by the pseudonym of 'Malcolm Young' but he's down in our records as Oliver MacLean. He's got previous in GBH and aggravated burglary, as well as attempted assault of a police officer. He's the best suspect that we've got. He's the only suspect that we've got. So we've got to follow this lead.”

 

Chandler let the CCTV play again, and for a moment the team watched the cycle go around again. It seemed strange, for Chandler, that something so inconsequential as a bag of chips, or a momentary glance was enough to give them a starting point. It gave them -him- the bloody footprints to lead him to the hand that held the knife. They were so much further ahead than he'd expected them to be. He'd been spoilt by the times of the Brookes, and the New Ripper. Crimes that took time to develop and come to the surface. This was a quick case.

 

Just hopefully they were able to make the arrest and convict.

 

“Mansell, were you able to contact Mr MacLean?”

 

Mansell shrugged, tightening his shoulders. It was a sign of bad news. Chandler knew that the case had been going too smoothly, with loosing Sherlock's influence and finding a viable and reasonable suspect. He could feel the beginning tendrils of a headache around the back of his neck.

           

“I got though to his wife Catherine, sir. She said that he should 'ave been in this evening but got called out to a meeting. That it was urgent and he said that he couldn't miss this appointment. She said he'd left his mobile, and had been deleting stuff before he'd gone. She sounded scared. But she doesn't know where he went.”

 

Chandler had suspected as much. It was all so convenient that as soon as they were close to making an arrest, the criminal took the advantage. That they were always having to run to catch up. At least they had the trail now, they just needed to be able to track it.

 

“There's nothing that we can do for her now. Have someone watch the house, in case he returns, and ask her to get in contact with us if he returns.”

 

It still seemed like he was an outsider, when it took Miles barking these orders at the uniforms for them to follow them. But, after what had happened with the Krays he didn't like to interact with the uniforms. They made him feel vulnerable. It was a churlish fear, and immature, but there was the faint hiss of relief that it was Miles who ordered them. They respected him, even after everything.

 

“That boy that Sherlock sent said that he was off the case.”

 

Chandler looked towards Kent's desk

 

“What are you saying Kent?”

 

Kent shrugged, and gestured towards the tapes which were still playing.

 

“I just don't know if I believe him sir, and suddenly our suspect's got a very important meeting? After Sherlock's seen the CCTV sir? Something isn't ringing true.”

 

Miles nodded, crossing his arms over his chest frowning.

 

“I think you've got something there lad.”

 

“It's the best lead that we've got at the moment, Kent, well done. Does anyone have some way of making contact with Sherlock?”

 

Miles was reaching for the phone on his desk, taking the decision out of Chandler's hands.

 

“Sir. If you think that Sherlock's gone off to meet Oliver MacLean then that bloody man will go and get himself killed. I don't care what sort of detective he claims to be, this just ain't no place for a civilian.”

 

It had been a matter of moments between a possible suspect arising and the need to get involved. _Now._ There were times that it would be calmer and more logical to have a desk to ride.

 

“Carry on sergeant.”

 

“Yes sir, Mansell, Kent find the number of that Doctor, John Watson. He's got more hope of getting through to this maniac, than we do. The number on the system ain't answering. And quickly.”

 

~

 

“He uses a warehouse down on the docks sometimes for meetings with all-sorts. I've never been along, so I don't know which number it is, but apparently there's a couple of bullet holes in the door.”

 

“Thank you sir-”

 

“-It's John-”

 

“- we'll do our best to find him.”

 

John scoffed down the phone.

 

“He won't be found if he doesn't want to be, you won't find him. I'll meet you, he'll listen to me.”

 

The sergeant at the other end of the phone didn't seem to be pleased about this declaration, but John supposed that he just sounded determined. It was good to have something to put his energy into.

 

“On your head be it sir.”

 

And he put the phone down.

 

Bloody Sherlock, getting himself involved in things that weren't his to try and solve. This wasn't just some petty jewel theft or something that he could blithely wander into and take the credit and none of the blame.

 

John sighed, and slipped his mobile into the pocket of his jeans. Sherlock couldn't leave him just to mourn, not even for a solid week to grief the murder of his sister. To let him organise- dear god the funeral, he'd not even though of the funeral before, he'd have to claim the body after the investigation and try and find Harry's friends. He'd not told anyone apart from Clara, he hadn't even told their, his family- the funeral. Instead he had to drop everything and go to Sherlock's rescue. Rescuing Sherlock from Harry's murderer?

 

He kept his gun in the top drawer of his dresser.

 

He thought that he'd need it.

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | Chapter 7 | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	10. A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Chapter 8**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Chapter 8  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

It was a cliché to use abandoned warehouses, but at least it limited the possible areas that they needed to travel to. It was quiet in Chandler's car, with the four of them in their looking out for something that would give them that vital clue.

 

“This is why we get the uniforms to do this.”

 

“We don't have time Miles, we've got to do this now.”

 

It was like a family trip, thought Chandler, with parents arguing in the front -although remaining civil- and children hunched up bored in the back.

 

It was a relief when John was spotted, arms crossed looking out for the team of detectives to arrive.

 

Chandler didn't want to draw up and leave his car open to view, his car was important to him. Both as a status symbol, but also as a practical measure. He knew he had no option though. This didn't stop him wincing when Miles threw the door open violently.

 

“Mind the car Miles.”

 

He didn't need to look to see that Miles was rolling his eyes at him.

 

“Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry for the need to involve you in this case. This is most unnatural, and completely against normal police procedure, however, you know Holmes and what he's likely to do and how he will act.”

 

John nodded, and you could see the death of his sister engraved on his expression.

 

His hand hovered over his jacket pocket. There was a bulge in his jacket, that was too long and angular to be a wallet or a mobile phone.

 

Chandler made a note to investigate fire-arms licences.

 

“Sir, do you know which of the warehouses that Mister Holmes uses?”

 

People listened to Miles when he talked, he had the air of someone who knew what he was doing and how to achieve it. Even the stab-vest which look seemingly thrown on underneath his mac, made him look prepared and ready for the action.

 

No matter what action that would turn out to be. They were able to face a murderer and a maniac, there was no knowing what could happen in this circumstance. The fact that John Watson, - a civilian, even if he was ex-army- had brought a gun showed what he expected to happen. And that was only because of his connections with Holmes.

 

“Sherlock’s direction skills aren’t brilliant, but this warehouse should be down this road, listen out for gunfire.”

 

It was humour at its blackest, and although Chandler saw Miles grin riley, no one laughed.

 

He hadn’t even considered the possibility of fire-arms involved in the skirmish, and that’s what this was going to be. They didn’t even have the back up of the armed response unit. It was as if they were compensating for how organised they’d been with the Krays. Angie Brooks had opened the door to them then, and now, where they expecting just to walk in and make an arrest?

 

Stab-vests were something, but they didn’t have back up, they didn’t have the scope for anything to go wrong.

 

“Lead on Doctor Watson.”

 

The streets of London weren’t haunting. There wasn’t fog rolling around their ankles, or shadowy footsteps haunting them. It was just a street. A street like any other. Coke cans in the gutter and cars whistling past. The thrill of the case just wasn’t calling to him, Chandler doubted that to was calling to any of them.

 

They didn’t need John to point out the warehouse, not when they were listening for an intervention.

 

Sherlock having been loud and indignant when dealing with them, was nothing less them speaking to the criminal. Everyone was equally distained. Chandler frowned, in the hash light it looked like John smiled. As it he was expecting it.

 

There were notable similarities between Sherlock and Miles, although he doubted that either man would take such a comment lightly. They had the same temper and passions. They would have even been friends, acquaintances. Miles trusted him now, they were one team bonded because of everything they’d been through, but given the choice.

 

Sherlock may have been anticipating John’s arrival, or Chandler and the team. But he was sitting nonchalant, facing the door. The suspect, Oliver MacLean was standing just in front of it, outlined by the flickering bulbs that had been switched on.

 

“Malcolm, Oliver, no matter what you think you ought to be called this doesn’t matter much to me. I have more than enough evidence to implement you into the murder of Harriet Watson- in the manner of Frances Coles, although how you expected anyone not to make the rather tenuous link I do not understand. Even the metropolitan police” –and it was obvious that he could seen Chandler now, the insult was palpable, considering that they hadn’t- “were on the way to figuring it out. So, why did you do it? Before I hand you over to the police that is, there ought to be something to pass the time with your pitiable reasoning.”

 

And although Chandler had faced down Jimmy Kray, Jimmy Brooks, he’d had the thrill of the buzz. And Miles telling him not to get himself killed. Sherlock was simply bloody minded. Or suicidal.

 

“The 2008 Ripper got it wrong. I just needed to sort the balance out. Frances Coles was a Ripper victim. I read about it, and he should have done it. But he didn’t, so I had to. And I did it and all. No one was expecting it because no one knew about it. I knew I was right, or else you wouldn’t be here. Would you?”

 

Chandler could see Sherlock nodded blithely. He genuinely couldn’t tell if the man was playing for time to allow them to get backup, or simply to annoy MacLean. Miles was gesturing to Mansell to ring for the uniforms, so perhaps it was working.

 

Mansell stepped away from the doorway –they didn’t want to gain any more attention than they needed to- and the hushed call was hardly audible in the London night.

 

They wouldn’t have a better opportunity than they did at that current moment, all of MacLean’s attention was on Sherlock, and they simply didn’t have time to wait for the armed backup –“ten minutes guv”- MacLean could have finished speaking, could have turned around. They simply had to take the opportunity that they’d been given.

 

“Hand in the air, Oliver MacLean you’re under arrest, you do not have to say anything but-”

 

And then everything was happening too fast, it always happened too fast in these situations, the Ripper had stabbed and ran and the planning that the Krays had undertaken was far too intense for this.

 

Murderers had knives.

 

Oliver MacLean was no different.

 

He’d been gesturing to Sherlock using it –it could have been the same knife that killed Harriet Watson- and now he turned to them. Waving it wildly between John, Mansell and Chandler.

 

Chandler looked towards John, to see whether he assumed, whether he knew that he was facing his sister’s murderer. IT had been obvious from the outset, but there was a difference being theoretical knowledge and seeing the cold, steel evidence before your eyes.

 

He couldn’t pretend that he couldn’t see the drawn hand-gun that John was nursing. He could see that it was cocked and loaded, but it was the only weapon that they had. Even with the six –although Mansell was waiting for the armed response and John and Sherlock were civilians- of them, it was MacLean who had the weapon. They might have the element of surprise, the door and their stab-vests (and this was why Sherlock should have done this by the book, he was putting them all at risk) but they were still vulnerable.

 

“The police-officer who found Frances Coles was killed in a fight ten years later. I don't have ten years. But there is are police-officers. And I can certainly provide a fight. Got to let history run its course.”

 

It was evident that he wasn’t going to come quietly, and it seemed preposterous that the six of them couldn’t formulate a plan to take him down, bring him in.

 

Chandler winced in sympathy when Sherlock attempts to trap the man had ended up with a bloody nose. He’d avoided the knife only barely –and Kent had had to reach forward to stop John stepping forward, they simply couldn’t condone the illegal use of firearms, no matter how helpful they would end up being- and instead MacLean had swung him a right hook.

 

Miles smiled ruefully, “I’d have said the bastard deserved it, but out the way sir-”

 

And it wasn’t Chandler’s neck which had the blade of the knife embedded within it, but Kent’s shoulder.

 

~

 

He was a doctor, first and foremost, and although there was little that he could do for a broken nose Sherlock wouldn’t do anything about it himself, only let it bleed out and ruin his coat. Not that Sherlock’s coat was the highest concern at the moment but the police could handle themselves.

 

“What did you think you were doing?”

 

Sherlock took a bloody hand away from this face, with a smile.

 

“It’s nice to see you too John. I was wondering when you would turn up.”

 

John rolled his eyes and shoved the handkerchief from his pocket into Sherlock’s hand.

 

“You could not have seriously expected me to turn up to this. No- don’t use your coat, here.”

 

Sherlock was smiling, that half real smile that he gave when something was going well and according to plan. And for some reason John found himself smiling back. It wasn’t a real smile, not yet, but it could be. Eventually.

 

And then were was a shout.

 

The knife, the knife that had killed his sister- it had to have been, why would he bring another?- was bloody again. He wasn’t one for poetry but, he didn’t understand the constant need for death.

 

He knew that he’d need his gun.

 

He and Sherlock were behind Oliver MacLean, he couldn’t see them. Too busy on taunting the police, laughing as Miles held his arms and Chandler pressed his hands to the wound in Kent’s shoulder, to Kent’s face.  

 

“Excuse me, the woman you _killed_ , she was my sister.”

 

And he brought the gun down on the side of MacLean’s head. He crumpled.

 

John was never going to shoot him, when they said that death was too good for some people, John knew how they felt. He didn’t want to kill this man. He wanted him destroyed.

 

The sirens outside indicated the arrival of the police – and wasn’t Sherlock right when he said that the police were always too little too late – but they didn’t need the police. They needed an ambulance. Sherlock could take care of his bloody nose. A stab-wound was much more urgent.

 

It was clear that Chandler had OCD, his behaviours screamed it, and John had done some of his training working with psychologists, so it was unnerving to see his hands shaking with blood. There was blood on Kent’s face.

  
“Sir, get out the way, let the doctor do his job.”

 

It would be Miles who solved the problem of the determined detective, by just getting him out the way. If he had to have such unsanitary conditions to try and do something about this he couldn’t deal with people. He just needed to focus.

 

He’d just taken down his sister’s killer.

 

“For gods sake, call an ambulance.”

 

He’d already given Sherlock his handkerchief, but one was pushed into his hand by- someone, he couldn’t tell who’d given it to him, but it was monogrammed with J.L.C and he held it against the wound. The ambulance would be coming, five to seven minutes, and the wound was by no means fatal.

 

If he could save someone from that knife.

 

“What’s your name? It seems a little impersonal to keep calling you Kent.”

 

Kent laughed, eyes watering- he’d injured before, he had to have been, he was too calm regardless of the tears. Armed computations and the injured. Out of the corner of his eye John could see the uniformed police; speaking to Miles, arresting MacLean, speaking to Sherlock.

 

Moreover he saw Miles pocket his gun- he didn’t even know that he’d dropped it- and Chandler addressing the other police but casting his eyes towards John.

 

“E-Emerson.”

 

And he’d not honestly meant to smile, but it said something about the last couple of days that an unusual name was enough to make him smile.

 

“It means son of the immortal. Bodes well, I’m guessing.”

 

Emerson smiled back, and John pressed the handkerchief into the wound harder, apologising with his eyes.

 

He was going to win.

 

The siren for the ambulance seemed quieter, perhaps because of the sheer numbers of people in the small warehouse and surrounding sheets- but the paramedics were direct, and Emerson was whisked away almost from under his nose.

 

John didn’t like the sensation of blood on his fingers.

 

“Do you want anyone to come with you?”

 

It was a quite question, and he shouldn’t have been listening, but it just called out for a doctor.

 

John stepped forward, he’d taken jurisdiction as his doctor, but Miles shoved Chandler in the small of the back.

 

“Just go with him! He needs you, sir!”

 

Sherlock didn’t have a shock-blanket, for once, he seemed to accumulate them after encounters with the police, but he nudged John with his shoulder.

 

“I’m going to need a new safe-house aren’t I John? How droll.”

 

~

 

It was clear from the offset, that it was unusual for Chandler to allow his car to be driven by anyone other than himself. When Miles slipped into the driver’s seat his hands, didn’t quite shake, but there was a notable absence of the normal bravado. It was with an eye roll and a glare from John that he slipped into the back seat with nothing but a brief mumble.

 

There was no logical reason that he should be travelling with Detective Sergeant Miles and Detective Constable Mansell, but John appeared to be determined to follow the case though. He supposed that John had a logical reason for doing so, the bond between brother and sister didn’t necessarily end at death he reasoned. But, he didn’t understand how this was his case, not any more. He’d lead them to their murderer. He’d been arrested. Case closed.

 

“’hanks.”

 

It was a genuine act of thanks, something he supposed to be rare from the elderly detective, but Sherlock was ambivalent towards it. He didn’t need thanks for it, although he supposed it was all that he would gather from the investigation. The metropolitan tended not to pay for his services, and there was little point in taking money out of John’s account, it would only go back into the rent. Or John’s wallet.

 

John stiffened beside him, inexplicably. There was no reason for him to feel uncomfortable. Whilst Sherlock was more than a little cramped, there should be ample room for John.

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

“I feel as though I ought to owe you an explanation. I've already mention to your DCs about this in very little detail. I used to be an addict, drugs, -don't expect me to spell it out any further, I am well aware of the use of the law in such cases- several years ago now and brother Mycroft insisted on putting me into rehabilitation. I've been clean for years, I don't even smoke. But I was in rehab in the second Autumn of Terror. I was refused cases, even inside, but I was allowed newspapers, it was the only thing keeping me sane. I was so close, and then Mycroft took my newspapers away from me. You bumbled the case that we keeping me sane. Mycroft delivered to me, on my leaving the rehab, the report of the drowned body. It was some what, symbolic. I was owed this case, at least in principle. Good work on keeping the body of the New Ripper covered up, by the way.”

 

There was silence in the back of Chandler's car.

 

And then Miles laughed.

 

“You're still not a proper detective, but I suppose you're more qualified than Buchan.”

 

Mansell laughed -“Who isn't?”- and turned from sitting shotgun to face Sherlock and John.

 

“But why'd you help _us_? Why not solve it by yourself?”

 

The interest of the police, whilst engaging at first, soon became tiresome.

 

“John’s personal involvement. Speaking of, are you going to give John his gun back, don’t think that I didn’t notice you pick it up Miles.”

 

Miles shook his head, keeping his eyes forwards. They were only moments away from the hospital, they’d lost the ambulance before they’d even set off, but there were only so many A&E’s that they could possibly be travelling to.

 

“Perhaps.”

 

That appeared to settle it, but it was clear from the tone that the gun would be returned. Returned and it wouldn’t be mentioned. The police knew what was owed to them, by John, if not Sherlock.

 

The rest of the ride was quiet.

 

The hospital, in contrast was stifling, there was too much noise and too many tears. He didn’t care for the state of beings. There was nothing to solve in a hospital, medics meant nothing to him. John was tense beside him. His nose was still aching from the blow that he’d suffered, and one of the nurses –Sara, 29, petite and brunette, living with a long term boyfriend, but going to break up because of her work commitments, he didn’t think she was putting the effort in the relationship, but she loved her job too much to care- had taken one look at him and all but pushed him into a restroom.

 

He used John’s handkerchief to wipe up the best of the blood. He still looked like he’d been punched in the face, but there was little point in denying the obvious.

 

There was even less reason for John and Sherlock to be sitting waiting with Miles and Mansell for the fate of someone who neither of them would consider again. They met so many people in their lives, in their jobs. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental towards people, of whom he didn’t even know their name. Hadn’t enquired into their names. Knowledge did not equate to caring. John seemed to forget this.

 

The case had been solved, and there was little reason to follow through on what would result in little more than paper work. There was to be no payment, and no interest in his bland hospital waiting room, drunk, drunk, worried mother- son had an asthma attack, two worried policemen, himself and John.

 

The steady pace of footsteps down the emptying corridor.

 

Three worried policemen.

 

(Yet still he waited.)

 

“He’s going to be fine. He’ll be admitted for a few days. But, he’s fine.”

 

And Sherlock could have told them that, John could have. John was certainly more qualified. But he supposed there was something reassuring about authority in a uniform. Not that it had done them much good for the case.

 

Chandler coughed, attracting attention in such a blatant way, it would be an announcement, personal in nature. Concerning him and DC Kent. There was nothing else that it could be. Not after the display in the warehouse.

 

“I feel that there is something that I should inform you of-”

 

“We know sir.”

 

“It's obvious”

 

Well. The police weren’t wholly useless then.

 

“Thank god for that.”

 

Just mostly.

 

“Shall we leave Sherlock?”

 

Certainly, it was time for them to leave. John had seen his case through and they’d had enough of police proceedings. It was evident that they would be brought in to provide evidence or at that trial at Court. John would certainly, he was the victim’s brother. At least they let him leave. He didn’t like this team, the inspector with OCD and his broken little team any more than he liked Lestrade and Anderson and Sally. But, perhaps it would be suitable to keep an eye on them. They tended to have the interesting cases after all. Not to mention John. He got too attached to people that he helped, especially in dramatic circumstances. And after this John deserved something, he’d had a hard time.

 

He couldn’t tell -and didn't want to know- if the police team behind him were laughing or crying as he heralded the taxi to take them home to Baker Street.

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | Chapter 8 | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	11. A Town Called Original Sin - Epilogue I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Epilogue I**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Epilogue I  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

Baker Street, was, for once quiet. Not quiet as in the sounds of the street didn't permeate the thin walls, and the humming of Mrs Hudson's cooker didn't irritate his ears. But quiet enough that his thoughts stayed within his skull and didn't overspill into the patches, the needle, the need to fight.

 

There was the heavy thump of feet on the hallway above; John.

 

It only could be John. He was, coping, Sherlock supposed. Keeping busy and making sure that he settled in routine.

 

Routine was safe. Routine was boring. Routine wasn't what would help him in the end.

 

John needed action, he needed something to work towards, people to help, he needed to be active.

 

“I need a cup of tea.”

 

Sherlock turned from the window and faced John. He looked, tired, but he was smiling, faintly.

 

“There's a kettle in the kitchen, and I think we have some usable tea bags somewhere, I can't say the same for the milk.”

 

John rolled his eyes at him, and Sherlock flashed a smile. It was a smile, not one of his jovial grins, he hoped that John appreciated it.

 

“If I get poisoned Sherlock...”

 

The threat was left hanging in the air, but Sherlock only laughed, and reached towards his Stradivarius. The flat was quiet, and his playing was more than adequate to fill the void.

 

The weight of his violin was comforting in his hands, he slotted it against his neck with ease. Vindicated somehow. He reached for his bow, perhaps some Vivaldi.

 

His fingers brushed an envelope.

 

He remembered taking the post, one morning, perhaps a month ago- the postmark would confirm it- and out of annoyance had scattered them. There had been nothing of any interest. Bills for Sherlock, bills for John, no cases, nothing of any interest, and this letter had landed were it was thrown and rested.

 

 _Johnny Watson_

 _221B Baker Street_

 _London_

 

“Sherlock, what's that?”

 

John held out one of the mugs for Sherlock, looking questionably at the envelope. He tossed his Stradivarius onto the sofa, loosening up his neck, and accepted the coffee mug.

 

“This arrived for you. At least a month ago. I only just found it.”

 

He passed it to John, who froze.

 

So the handwriting was Harry's then. He'd supposed as much, it was clearly feminine and the use of the nickname _Johnny_ which Sherlock had never heard before.

 

John torn open the envelope with shaking fingers.

 

There was a photograph, and a note, which John skimmed eyes watering.

 

Then John looked at the photograph.

 

And laughed.

 

Sherlock frowned, gesturing out to John for the note.

 

 _I found this going though a few boxes the other day. Thought you'd like a copy of it._

 _Those were the days weren't they?_

 _Love you little bro,_

 _Harry._

 

Something from their childhood, it seemed, a family memory perhaps.

 

John was still smiling. Perhaps he was beginning to heal, coming full circle.

 

John offered the photograph to Sherlock, who took it, and smiled.

 

It was a photograph of John and Harry. They were much younger, John couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he was standing with his arm looped around Harry's shoulder.

 

They were apparently pretending to be each other. Harry was wearing an ill-fitting jumper (John's lack of style had clearly been ingrained from a young age) and her hair had been brushed back, whilst John had dragged up, eye-shadow, lipstick and a terribly patterned dress.

 

John was still smiling.

 

It was good, Sherlock decided, for John's last memory to be of this Harriet, alive and laughing, not cut up and dead.

 

“She'd have been proud of you. Well probably.”

 

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter ](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html)1 | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | Epilogue I | [Epilogue II](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200224.html)


	12. A Town Called Original Sin - Epilogue II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

_**A Town Called Original Sin- Epilogue II**_  
 **Title:** A Town Called Original Sin - Epilogue II  
 **Fandom/s:** Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover  
 **Pairings:** Chandler/Kent  
 **Rating:** 15  
 **Disclaimer:** Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.  
 **Warnings:** Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.  
 **Spoilers:** Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.  
 **BETA:** [](http://4492.livejournal.com/profile)[**4492**](http://4492.livejournal.com/)  
 **[Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/179471.html) **  
**A/N:** Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"  
 **Summary:** It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.

They hadn't been invited to the funeral. It hadn't been deemed appropriate, and it seemed wrong to turn up to the funerals of their victims, if they went to one then they were obligated to go to all of them. They would never have time, not to go to all of those funerals. They'd been to McCormack's funeral of course. He'd bee one of them.

 

But it was different, to do this. It was tradition.

 

They were standing by the grave of Harriet Watson ' _beloved sister and friend_ ', all of them, with a bottle of scotch between them.

 

Miles had handed Chandler the screw-cap unanimously, -“More hygienic for you sir”- and poured a shot. The rest of them passed the bottle, each taking a swig when it was their turn, nodding at the grave stone.

 

Chandler and Kent's fingers were laced together. The rest of the team rolled their eyes, but pretended to ignore them.

 

Miles proffered the bottle to the gravestone.

 

“God bless you Harriet” “-and Frances.”

 

Miles nodded at Kent's interruption.

 

“To Harriet and Frances”.

 

“Harriet and Frances.”

[Prologue](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/183995.html) | [Chapter 1](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198002.html) | [Chapter 2](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198337.html) | [Chapter 3](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198498.html) | [Chapter 4](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/198738.html) | [Chapter 5](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199007.html) | [(Interlude)](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/202882.html) | [Chapter 6](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199322.html) | [Chapter 7](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199439.html) | [Chapter 8](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/199826.html) | [Epilogue I](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/200116.html) | Epilogue II

  
The [Frances Coles Memorial Appeal 2011](http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=122435627800975) is "an appeal to lay either a plaque or headstone to commemorate the burial site (currently unmarked) of 'Whitechapel Murder' victim Frances Coles, 1859-1891." If you've enjoyed this fic, then please consider donating. 


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